


The Curator and The Corvid

by NymeriaKing (DisappearingGirl)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Art, Blood and Gore, Chronic Illness, Domestic Violence, Epilepsy, Flashbacks, Heist, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, Illegal Activities, Injury, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Mind Control, Organized Crime, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seizures, Theft, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21789889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisappearingGirl/pseuds/NymeriaKing
Summary: The Curator is London's most prolific art thief. For ten years, he and his tight syndicate of ex-soldiers have ruled the city and all its treasures. Then came the Corvid.As Hux, the infamous Curator, reaches his early retirement, he has only one goal: to give his faraway love, Kylo, the luxurious lifestyle he deserves. While money, a mysterious ailment, and lingering shadows of his war-torn past weigh on Hux, will the Corvid's mischievous trespassing and thieving become the final feather that break his back?Art byArsTyrannus.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46
Collections: Kylux Big Bang 2019





	1. The War At Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"No man can rob successfully over a period of years without pleasing the people he robs." – Theodore Sturgeon_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was truly wonderful to work with [Arstyrannus](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus) on her magnificent prompt! I found it both fascinating and exciting, and I hope to have done it justice. Her beautiful art will be featured throughout the fic, but be sure to head over to her [twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus) to show her some support!
> 
> Content Warning: Please mind the tags. This fic features some illnesses, violence between all sorts of characters, and lots of illegal activity. I've tried to tag everything, but if there's anything I've missed, feel free to let me know so I can add it. Thank you!

On the Curator's plight:

The entire conundrum had started in the early hours of a January morning, about three years before it rather suddenly ended late on a December night.

_The cold winter night is as quiet as it is dark. The heavy, frost-laden air serves to blanket the sound of Opan's footfalls as he carries the bag of tools around the corner to where Hux is waiting._

_With a gesture, Hux leads Opan along the side of the building, counting the service doors. One, two, three — this one, one-oh-two. He climbs the steps two at a time and then turns to watch Opan follow his exact footsteps._

_"Seven cars, and there's been a rash of break-ins on the east side," Opan mutters quietly. "Three minutes?"_

_"Two and a half," Hux replies, hand on the door handle. "And then we need to already be off this block." He turns it with a click, and it's unlocked as promised._

_But there's no announcement of the door opening, only a blaring silence. He knows this alarm system is not a silent one; it's either disabled or otherwise occupied. Hux's breath hitches._

_Next to him, Opan tuts. "Time to leave?"_

_Taking a moment to think, Hux eases the door open wider and listens closely. All he hears is the sound of his partner's raspy breathing. "I think we're alone, actually, though it can't be for long." He listens for another long second and peers into the darkness before glancing back over his shoulder at Opan's silhouette. "Give it sixty seconds. I know where everything should be. Instead of breaking out another way, let's keep this door open, and you stay here."_

_He slips inside, pausing briefly at a glint of metal shavings all over the floor._ Sloppy _, he thinks, frowning at the unavoidable mess, and pads softly down the hall toward the west atrium._

_Backlit by the dim security lighting, there is an obvious hole in the door where the handle should be, clearly the source of the mess, and he peers through it into the open room. Instead of an impeccable display of three cases, only one is untouched; the other two are broken, and their glass is scattered across the floor. Whoever had come into this place clearly didn't know what they were doing, and Hux is not inclined to take the blame for it either._

_But he can't leave without checking for his prize, which_ he _knows is removed from its case at night. Hooking a gloved finger into the opening, he pulls the door open and flits across the small gallery to the door on the other side. He thumbs the entry code into the panel on the lock and slips inside, stopping when he finds the large safe inside to be drilled open and empty._

_"Shit."_

_This storage room is as messy as the gallery — walls bared, tables cleared, broken glass on the floor, and not even a single porcelain fragment to be found._

_Chest stinging from the ten-thousand pound flop, he backs out of the room immediately and quickly jogs back down to Opan. "It's not where it's supposed to be," he snaps quietly, leading him outside. "Whoever did this is an idiot and a dumbass, and we're lucky we didn't run right into the law."_

Something similar happened again near the end of that year, late in November. While casing a small university's museum, which housed a curiously desired Xhosa veil of beads, Hux saw a police cruiser pull up to the main entrance.

_And then another less than a minute later._

_And another._

_"Was it something I said?" Hux mutters into his sandwich, side-eyeing Mitaka. "I thought we were on good terms. I don't even need a visitor pass anymore, or so I thought."_

_Next to him, Mitaka gulps nervously and picks his drink up from the bench, covering his mouth while he speaks. "I really hope this is a coincidence."_

_"So do I." The worst possibilities are the most likely: either Hux and his team fucked up while casing the place in the past, or someone on the team got greedy. There's a chance it could be a coincidence, but Hux isn't betting on it — not when the robbery is scheduled for the following morning._

_Mitaka bumps his shoulder familiarly. "Do you want to leave now?"_

_"Don't touch me," he snaps, and the smaller man shrinks back. "And yes, I want to leave now, and I want you to go home and keep an eye on the news. Ask your sister if she's heard about anything exciting happening around here lately. Give me every detail within thirty-six hours, or else I'll pay your mother a visit."_

_"Yes, sir." With a nod, Mitaka gets up on shaky legs and clears his food away before heading off to do as he's told._

_When Mitaka reports back to him, he learns that the very item he'd been tasked with acquiring — the_ amageza _, a beaded veil that he couldn't imagine anyone wanting to pay twenty-thousand to acquire — had been taken in the night. No one knows who did it._

The following April saw Hux tightening up his missions, but to no avail.

_Hux has the notes memorized, but he keeps the slip of paper tucked deep in his pocket anyway, just in case. Opan had scouted and baited the police this time, but Hux has left him absent from the grab. Mitaka has been left out entirely, completely unaware of the job. After two bad nights in one year, he can't be careful enough. Every mission is compartmentalized to the max, and he only takes Thanisson to the location discreetly._

_The pair of them swiftly climb the stairs, ascending flight after dark flight, before bursting onto the third floor and making a beeline for the display of strange French silverware — down the main alley, left, right, up the ramp, around the corner, and…_

_Hux stops in his tracks, mouth agape in abject disbelief. Fifteen-thousand — gone._

_Thanisson almost runs right into him. "What is it?"_

_He shakes his head and scoffs. "Let's get the fuck out of here."_

_"What? But—"_

_"Now," he huffs, turning around and pushing him back around the corner. "It's over. The night's done."_

The summer passed easily enough, though Hux found himself fretting over the three mysterious vanishings and wondering on every new assignment whether something similar would happen again. Naturally, that September, after the weather cooled and the kids went back to school, Hux's blood boiled once more.

_"Shit!" Hux clenches his fists violently, grinding his teeth and resisting the urge to shout. "Shit!"_

_Mitaka jumps a little at each hiss. "Sir?"_

_The anger burns through his skin, but he refrains from touching his hot face with his gloved hands. "It's time to go," he spits, turning on his heel to vacate the gallery._

_"But sir—"_

_"I said we're leaving." He spins back around, glaring at his partner, and frowns when he sees him squatting over his own shadow, covering some loose screws and a bit of electrical tape or something._

_"I think this is—"_

_"Shut up and get moving."_

_And so Mitaka stands, letting the soft moonlight illuminate whatever little mess he was hovering over, and follows Hux out to the car. As they leave the scene, he mumbles something to Hux, almost too quiet to hear over the turn of the engine. "It was a feather."_

_Hux frowns. It was so dark; he thought it was just tape. "So?"_

_"It's unusual, that's all."_

_"Burglaries are unusual," he sighs, pressing harder on the throttle as he gets up on the highway, "especially two at the same place and on the same night. Get over it." He grips the steering wheel tight, as if strangling it._

_His own words ring in his pounding ears._ Get over it. _But he can't. This is the fourth damned time in less than two years that this has happened, and that grab would've nabbed him an easy ten-thousand pounds —_ after _the split. He needs that money, needs to get to New York, then to California. He can't let it go._

_Something is very wrong. He'll have to have a tense talk with Phasma when they meet._

_Hux uses his nice voice. "You're my fence, and I owe you everything."_

_Unaffected, Phasma stares, lips pursed._

_"But_ you _owe_ me _an explanation," he growls across the desk, "because I have no idea what the hell is going on."_

_She continues to stare in silence, hands folded on the desk while she doubtlessly counts away second after second to unnerve him. Half a minute passes, then another._

_Hux doesn't squirm anymore, but he still feels the urge to chew the soft flesh of his cheeks as his patience runs out. "Since January of last year, I've had four pieces get nabbed right under my nose. They were practically in my hands when they were taken." He holds his hands out to illustrate, shaking them helplessly. "That's not a coincidence. You have to know something."_

_Posture still rigid, she tilts her head minutely. "What you're telling me is that you're becoming incapable of doing your job."_

_He reels back and scoffs, but she isn't wrong. "If this problem keeps getting worse, that might be so," he hisses. "Is someone else selling you these items? Are your clients getting them from another broker?"_

_Phasma frowns deeply. "No. They're only disappointed in your shortcomings, Mister Curator." Slowly, as a cat crouches to study its prey, she leans forward over her desk, eyes piercing as he clenches his fists. "You used to rule this neighborhood. It would seem the respect you commanded is fading. It hurts me to watch you fall like this, sir."_

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

**PRESENT**

Winter is a gift. No one wants to spend more time out and about than necessary. Everyone is depressed. Everyone is broke. Everyone is showing off their wealth. The air quiets the streets. The sun sets early and rises late.

From midnight to 4 a.m., witnesses are asleep, and everything is fair game.

After the first frozen weekend in November, Hux makes a killing, taking only weeks off between each job. December is even colder and darker, and January is even more depressing.

This job will be an easy one.

In one swift movement, Hux secures the nylon over his head and bounds toward the door, drill in hand. Kneeling at it, he makes quick work of boring through the spot where the lock should be and knocking it out. He passes the drill back to Mitaka, who hands him a metal crook from the tool bag. He snakes it through the new hole and levers it down, depressing the bar inside and pulling the door open.

"Two minutes," he murmurs, handing the crook back and slipping inside.

Down the hall on the right, up the stairs, left at the first landing, straight down the hall, right at the T, second left.

There's a drop-gate blocking the target room, so Mitaka hands him the small leather case with his best set. He picks the lock quickly and throws the gate up, shuffling inside and freezing when he sees the opposite wall more clearly.

It also has a gate. That gate is also up.

He sighs, half-defeated, and turns to look at the main case. It's completely cleaned out, and the floor is covered in glass. He allows himself a brief moment to mourn the loss — the pride, the money, the time he could spend in the place he belongs — before turning to leave, brushing past Mitaka.

"Sir, wait," his partner whispers, stalking over toward the busted case. His shoes squeak over clinking glass with each step, and he crouches over something.

Hux can't shake the bitterness stinging along his skin. "You'll need to throw those shoes out when we leave," he hisses, still side-stepping out.

"I know, but _look_." He picks something small up off the ground and holds it out for him to see. "A feather. The Corvid."

At the name, his blood chills in revulsion.

"Remember the last time this happened? There was a feather there, too. It's got to be—"

"Don't say that name again," Hux snaps. After hearing it all over the news the past few months, he's grown rather sick of the empty name and the paper-thin reputation it holds. Now, empty-handed once again, he's sick of his shit getting stolen from under his very nose. "Let's just get out of here. Now."

Obediently, Mitaka jumps up, dropping the feather, and hurries down the halls and through the stairwells after him.

Back in the car, Hux reaches across the center console and plants his hand on the side of Mitaka's head, slamming it against the window and yanking a yelp out of him. "If I find out that you have had _anything_ to do with these missing targets, even by accident, then I will ruin your sister's life. Do you understand?"

With a whimper, he nods.

"Good. And don't use that cute little name around me. Whoever they are, they are scum."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

In the background, the news anchor drones on and on in her annoyingly inquisitive inflection.

_"Who is the Corvid? … They are leaving a single feather at each crime scene. ... Is it one person, or is it many? … How many places have they hit? … Police are saying that this pattern is unusual. ... Will criminal activity remain on the rise as the Corvid encourages other thieves? ... Will someone get hurt? … We're seeing both daytime and nighttime thefts. … What are the police doing to prevent burglaries? ... They have no leads on the identity of this perpetrator. … How soon can we expect action on the matter?"_

It should be a peaceful evening. Work in the office is over, dinner was good, and the fire is going strong. Now that he's home, he has nothing to worry about.

But Hux worries. He is and always has been a worrier, and no presumed peacefulness can change that. As lovely as the evening at home looks to be, the nightly news is still playing all his failures back over in his mind — the first miss, the second, the third, the fourth, and worst of all, the dawning realization that this turf is no longer his own.

Reclining on the sofa, he sighs wearily. He's ruled this area for as long as he's been here, and he'll be damned if this new asshole creeps any further in and sucks more money out.

The feathers perplex him. They started in the fall, around the time Mitaka found his first one, and act as a signature, riling up the news media and sparking a flame of interest from the public.

The interest worries him, of course. He prefers to keep quiet and never make a show of clearing out his friends, lest he find himself on a late-night dinner date with Scotland Yard and an awkward morning after with the NCA, followed by Interpol's charming afternoon delight. But unlike the Corvid, the law would at least have the decency to handcuff him before fucking him so ruthlessly.

Beyond the interest, however, the earlier misses _lacking_ the signature feather leave him confused and perhaps more anxious. It's the uncertainty of it that bugs him so, though in truth, every aspect of every miss is uncertain — the timing, the selection, the impact. But there's a key question nagging him.

Were the earliest stolen targets, the ones from before the feathers, taken by the same person?

He's inclined to believe that yes, it must have been the very same. After all, the odds of having _two_ separate people both taking his targets from under his nose are far too low, or so he hopes. If it is two people, that would imply that his control over the area really is slipping hard.

But if it is one person, that would also imply that whoever Hux is dealing with is bold and greedy. There's no way they can be unaware that this territory belongs to him; everyone knows, and everyone respects it.

From the first miss, it's been two years to the month. Two years and now five snubs from his very grasp. Counting all the news reports, it totals to fourteen burglaries, both day and night, getting more mysterious with each drop of a feather. They're getting cleaner, getting faster, and Hux has his suspicions.

Whoever it is, they must personally know a lot of the victims to keep going on for this long. Without friends inside, it's impossible to be this prolific. Everyone has friends inside, but even Hux doesn't have this many. Maybe they're stealing friends, too, cutting out the work of making new ones.

It could always be one of his own doing all this, he knows, but he's reluctant to believe that. The lesser men are too stupid. The good men, Mitaka, Thanisson, and Opan, are all loyal; Hux knows too much about them for them to feel safe in crossing him. If they were to do it, they'd have to have killed him by now.

And he's not dead. Not yet.

He runs a thumb over a small scar on his neck idly. With a tired sigh, he rises from the couch and puts out the fire, watching the faint glow recede until the room is left in total darkness.

The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and the silence in the flat rings loud. Upstairs, his neighbors are still awake, shuffling about. Outside, society carries on. In his living room, he forces himself to take a deep breath and walk into the hall. Bending down, he flips on the nightlight.

There's no one there with him. He glances over his shoulder to check the shadows. No one. He walks down the hall, pausing at his bedroom door. It's dark. When he thumbs on the second night light, the room is empty.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

New York is dreadful in February. Cold, wet, biting. It strikes a chord somewhere, makes one imagine what colonial American winters must have been like without modern amenities. No wonder they threw the world's largest hissy fit and dumped all their tea out — they were making room for bourbon.

"You smelled like bourbon when I first met you at Rax's show."

"I smelled like bourbon a lot back then, especially at the gallery."

"You did." Hux reaches over to the bedside table and fumbles for the tumbler. It's light when he picks it up, nearly empty, and he drains it easily before clacking it back on the hardwood and turning back to his lover. Pressing his face to his chest, he breathes in deep and relishes in the safety of cedarwood and mahogany. This is his safe place, his safe person, far away from the art and the guns and the constant threat of the disruption.

Admittedly, Kylo had started as a potential in — friendly and familiar with his uncle's gallery — but after drinks and dates and endless phone calls, all Hux could see in him was an end. Kylo never knew enough about art anyway.

"It wasn't just from drinking a lot. I mean, I did, but I got it from my mother — both the drinking and the smell. My mother has this recipe for bourbon cinnamon rolls. She mixes it into the butter to paint over the dough before it's rolled up. Then she mixes it into the icing, too, adds extra spices, and absolutely drenches them in the stuff."

Hux hums, eyes closed as he listens to the deep voice reverberate in the large chest below his ear. The body underneath his runs warm, always has, and he curls into it to escape the winter chill permeating the old building.

"If I could bake without it being an absolute disaster, I would make some right now. The weather is perfect for them, and it's been a long time since I've been able to eat them."

Hux smirks and gives a light pinch to his lover's ribs. "Please don't. Not after last time."

"We'll hire a baker, then," Kylo huffs, snaking his arms tighter around Hux. "Pay them to come here, make some, then leave — if any of them will leave the warmth of their bakery in this weather."

Blinking his eyes open, Hux looks out at the dark clouds through the window — just in time to make out a faint flash of light.

"Shit."

"I'll close the curtains," he murmurs, scrambling to get up from the bed as Kylo rolls over, turning away from the lightning and deep roll of thunder. "Sorry. I should've—"

"Don't worry about it."

He shakes his head, grabbing the two panels and yanking them closed. "No, I—"

"It's me, not you," Kylo insists. "I should just keep them closed. I knew the weather would be like this."

Hux sighs, shuffling back to bed and crawling in on what had been the other man's side. Sliding under the covers, he curls up against his back and wraps his arms around him. "It's my job to take care of you, babe." He plants a gentle kiss on the back of his neck. "Valentine's Day is not the day for you to be going through all that. I'd much rather you exert yourself in a sexy way, not in a medical emergency way, yeah?"

He huffs a laugh. "Yeah, but it's still—"

"Not your fault," he finishes.

Kylo gives him a brief look over the shoulder before turning back to face him.

Hux smiles gently. "You look like shit."

"Thanks."

"I saw you have a sip earlier," he murmurs inquisitively, "so I know the bourbon's not only for me. How long have you been completely off the dilantin?" The anticonvulsants absolutely do not mix with alcohol, so that was a giveaway.

He bites his lip and shrugs minutely, scarcely avoiding his gaze in the tight proximity. "A month now, I think. Four, five weeks? It took forever to get dosage all the way down." Thunder rolls out when he says that. "What with these storms and all, I think Mother Nature is listening and may not approve, but…" He shrugs again.

"But you feel better being off it?"

Kylo nods. "It was hell. You remember."

Hux does remember, but something more pleasant catches his eye. "Hm, and this burn?" he asks, running a hand along the bright white bandage on Kylo's right arm. It runs from wrist to elbow, a reminder that even the most mundane tasks can be dangerous in the wrong circumstances.

"It was a cooking accident," he whispers, frowning defensively. "The only accident. I've been fine."

Hux isn't so convinced. He strokes a thumb under his lover's eye, contrasting the purple skin with the peachy-white hue of his own. "One accident is too many when you're living alone." His lip twitches, teasing at a frown. "You know I would prefer you stay with me, especially when you're off your big medication."

"I," Kylo starts, pausing for a moment to close his eyes and sigh into the pillow. "Don't stress me out, please."

"You know I'm not trying to do that," he murmurs with a caress.

"I know, but still…" With a steadying breath, he presses their foreheads together. "I only want three things, babe. I want to stop feeling suffocated by this _disease_ , I want to live on a sunny beach, and I want to be with you. As long as you're rooted in England, I can only have one or two of those things at a time."

It's the truth, of course; Kylo never speaks anything but that, erring only on the side of too much honesty.

Hux pulls him closer, tangling their legs and synchronizing their breathing. "I am trying," he promises. "As soon as I have the money, I will give you everything and come to join you." In his arms, Kylo relaxes a fraction. The hot and breathing life in his arms fuels him, and he pushes his lie a little bit further. "I've been promised another raise, but work is slow, so they haven't confirmed it yet. It'll only be a while longer."

In truth, the office work is mundane and shitty, no raises mentioned, and the Corvid's bad habit of stealing his targets is proving to be a major inconvenience. His small laundering operation is threatening to go under, too. Hux should have packed his bags before Christmas, but he's about four million pounds short of their dream.

Gaze imploring, Kylo bites his lip until he's clearly in pain. "It's been two years since you first promised me this."

It hits like a knife in the chest. "By the end of this year," he whispers, frowning. If he makes every mark, feeds the fence every last target, and the filthy thief that's been capturing all the attention for his daring heists doesn't interrupt his progress, then he'll make his goal by the end of the year. If the Corvid continues being greedy, then he'll simply ramp up his schedule. It's risky and positively asinine, but it's the only way. "I promise you, I swear, this year will be our year. I'll be ready."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

_"Nervous?"_

_Hux startles, shoulders jumping slightly at the unexpected voice behind him. He turns his head just as the man, extravagantly dressed in a myriad of blacks, is circling around. He's seen this before; he must be dreaming, but the words spill from his mouth automatically. "I'm afraid we haven't met."_

_The strange young man briefly glances out at the rest of the attendees before turning back to Hux with a gleam in his eye. He brings a glass of amber liquid to his lips, takes a short sip. "You're going to bleed if you keep doing that."_

_He frowns. "Doing what?"_

_The man draws closer, the scent of alcohol and warm spices encroaching in on his personal space. "Digging your nails into your palms like that," he whispers. Hux opens his hands behind his back, and the man shuffles over to his side, still closer than he has any right to be. "I don't particularly care for crowds either, if I'm honest. I'm only here because my uncle owns this place."_

_That catches Hux's attention more than any other strange thing this man has done. His eyes lock onto his shoes instantly, shifting slowly upwards and taking in the strange textures and patterns of the black trousers and black belt and black shirt and black jacket and green eyes. "So that's who you are," Hux murmurs, turning the connections over in his mind, "the nephew of the man who owns this gallery."_

_"Call me Kylo."_

_"Kylo," he repeats. "Sounds fake."_

_Kylo grins, eyes damn near twinkling in the gallery lighting. "It is, but unlocking my backstory will cost a lot more than glowering in a corner all night. What's your name?"_

_He hesitates. Accompanied as he is, he's not in a position to lie about his name tonight, but the urge is strong. His throat tightens around it, and it comes out hoarse. "Hux."_

_"I see how it is." Kylo smirks and takes another sip. "I give you a fake name, so you only give me a last name — one I don't recognize from the list. Are you here with someone, or did you sneak in?"_

_Hux almost laughs at the notion. If he wanted to crash this event, he could have, but he's on a very different end of business this time around. "I'm here with the featured artist, actually."_

_In the gallery, the exhibition carries on. People mill about, studying the artwork and talking pleasantries and eating tiny pieces of boring foods._

_But something seems off. He can't name what it is, can't point out any individual clue, but he has the distinct sense that something is about to happen. His heart is racing._

_"Really?" Kylo asks, brow raised. "You can shed light on the subject matter, then, can you?"_

_Hux blinks slowly and looks back over to the man he just met. The memory's words continue to slip out as they had years ago, even as the illusion starts to fall apart. "He has shed as much light as anyone can, I'm afraid. Those things we lived through can't be put into words." The temperature in the building seems to rise, and he pulls his collar off his neck._

_"So you were there, too. In Afghanistan."_

_"Yes," he rasps._

_Kylo hums, mouth downturned. The heat distorts the image, causing his face to waver. "I'm sorry to hear they're in the rows."_

_Hux frowns and cocks his head. That's not what Kylo said on the night they met. "What did you just say?"_

_Something snaps right next to his head, and he can feel the fire._

_Kylo's eyes widen into moons, and he bares his teeth, resembling a cornered animal forced to fight. He yells, and the voice isn't the soft Brooklyn droll it should be, but Rax's harsh bark. "In the rows!"_

_What they never tell you during training is that you don't hear gunshots when they're aimed at you. You never hear the charge go off in the chamber. It's too far away, always drowned out by something much louder and closer. Bullets are hot, and the air around them sizzles and expands. For a moment, while it's close to your ear, you can hear the violence go off within your reach._

_He's falling, falling, falling, and he feels the ground before he feels the hole in his neck, and then_ he's crawling up to the head of his bed, scrambling to get up against the headboard, pushing himself down into the mattress, and packing himself into the corner.

Minutes pass before he can register anything but automatic fire and a overwhelming nausea. His legs are twitching. His face is wet. His lungs are on fire. He buries his face in a pillow and breathes in deep. April flowers. The fabric softener he uses here at home is scented as April flowers. April flowers, he tells himself again.

He doesn't know how long it takes, has no desire to look at the clock, but eventually, after smothering himself for long enough, he's able to stare up at the ceiling and tell himself that this one came out of nowhere.

It's a lie, of course. It's all rooted in anxiety, of which he has plenty.

But it's comforting to tell himself that these sorts of terrors don't usually happen, that it's not that bad, that it isn't a mainstay in his life, that there's nothing he could have done to prevent it, that it's not going to get any worse because they're _benign_.

It's been thirteen years, but every time they come, they're benign. He's over it.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

The first rule everyone must follow is: do not speak over the Curator. The consequences might be anything.

No one is psychic, of course, and so no one can perfectly predict when the Curator will speak. So as not to unintentionally break this rule, everyone remains silent while the Curator is in the room.

Some sweat, some glower, and some chew on their tongues, but all twelve or so of them keep their heads up and their eyes on the Curator as he paces along the wall, mulling over his own words.

"Respect," he begins quietly, not needing to raise his voice in the silent room, "is a simple thing."

Pursing his lips, he stops his pacing and looks out at the top brass in his employ — his three close teammates, his scraggly dogs, his fine and trim governers. He won't yell at them, won't lay a hand on them if he doesn't need to. He is not his father's son, uncontrolled rage and untempered greed, but his own man, clean and sleek and fair. He raises a gloved hand, pointing two fingers up at the concrete ceiling.

"It is a fusion of two basic foundations: acknowledgement and restraint." He drops his hand and holds it straight down at his side, both fists curled tight. "It can be an extension of admiration or of fear, and to he honest with you, I could not give even half a shit about what motivates you to respect me. And as long as you respect me, I respect you.

"If you don't respect me, rest assured that I will formally terminate my respect of you to maintain a fair and honest relationship. I'm no slob, and I am not cruel."

The men all continue to watch and listen as he reaches behind his back and unholsters his weapon. He brings it forward and holds it aloft, showing it off for the group.

"A fifty-cal will do it easily and permanently, and being that every one of you has operated something of this caliber, I expect you to acknowledge it, fear it, and respect it." He reholsters it. "Otherwise, you all know as well as I do that one of these to the back of the head will leave you faceless. And we all want a nice, open casket in the end, don't we?"

Silently, everyone nods.

"Any action or inaction that results in a loss of revenue will beget punishment. Any such _intentional_ harm will be your end. This includes both direct involvement and passive behavior. You all have a duty to protect what's ours, and I expect you to either perform it or inform me otherwise."

With all this said, he pauses for a minute to look at each man in the eye, searching for any sign of greed.

As soldiers, they all stare back with resolve and respect, and he dismisses them.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"Everything all right, sir?"

Hux curses. "Why the fuck would you ask me that?"

"Sorry, sir."

He slides his gaze over to the passenger seat, and Mitaka stares back, eyes round. "I asked, why the fuck would you ask me that?"

Mitaka gulps, pale face almost glowing in the dark of night. "You look a little ill, sir. That's all."

Scoffing, he unclenches his fists and leans forcefully back into the seat. "Maybe I'd look healthier if you all took care of the things you need to take care of. Like this necklace — it should have been ours nearly a month ago. What gives?"

His partner hesitates.

"Why am I about to go in there right now?" he hisses. "This was B-team's job, and they never got around to it. Someone out there wants to pay twenty-grand for a metal chain with little red rocks all around it, and those three _didn't do it_. If you think I look ill, you should see what a corpse looks like. If that team slacks off again, you might just get your chance."

Schooling his face into a stronger look, Mitaka nods. "Yes, sir. I promise to never disappoint you that way, sir."

Hux rolls his eyes. "We'll see if you ever even go above and beyond." Shaking his head, he pulls his mask on and climbs out of the car, leaving the door cracked open behind him. He takes a deep breath of the nighttime air, catching a faint whiff of flowers, and moves in toward the gallery.

But then, loud in the quiet hour, he hears the mocking chatter of a magpie.

It's all Hux can do, not cursing as he tries to sneak from a car to the building. He tries for a moment to fight it, to bat the animal out of the air, but it's aggressive and agile and huge, and he can't land a solid hit. It gets his ear, his fingers, his scalp, and when he's almost clear of the beast and in reach of the door, he looks back up at it, scowling as it swoops down one more time to claw at his face.

Instant agony guts him. The pain shoots straight through his head, burning like a bullet out the back, and lights up the entire side of his face. He nearly drops to his knees right then, hunching over the asphalt before scrambling his hands over the wall to right himself.

For a moment, he questions where he is. Is he really back home? Did he ever really leave that hellscape? His stomach lurches.

Blood. He's bleeding. He can feel it running down his face and neck before suddenly remembering that there's something much more dangerous than some freak bird attack — DNA. He feels his pockets for a rag and whips one out, yelping when he presses it against the torn skin. 

There's pressure in all the wrong places, heat and cold, an abundance of wetness, and he curses when he feels a grip on his shoulder.

"Get up," Mitaka hisses, tugging on his arm. "Get up." With strength Hux had never realized the boy had, he drags him up off the ground and tugs him in the direction of the car.

He manages to stay on his feet the whole way back, stumbling only once before folding down into the car. Leaning forward is what nearly does him in, though, nausea coursing throughout his body and disorienting him. Not ducking low enough, he hits his head on the frame. Something grabs his sleeve and pulls him the rest of the way inside.

"Close your door."

Hux reaches for the door, grasping it clumsily and pulling it shut.

"Can you make it to Milton Keynes?"

"Can I _what_?"

"That veterinarian of yours won't fix that eye, and I'm not taking you to a hospital anywhere close to here," Mitaka growls. "My grandparents will house you while I destroy this car and find another."

Heaving a painfully short breath, Hux turns to look at his partner.

The young man scowls as Hux has never seen before, brow low and imposing, no pout in sight. "It's too risky to get treatment nearby, sir. I have too much to lose if you get caught." He shifts out of park and gets them moving, keeping his eyes on the road. " _You_ have too much to lose. Put your seat down."

He lowers his seat quickly, too quickly, and groans as the blood rushes to his head. It feels like drowning, something seeping back into his eye, and he rolls onto his side, pressing the good side of his face down into the seat.

Mitaka is right. He has much to lose. And he just lost some more. When they burn the car, part of him would like to be in it.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"I didn't think magpies were awake at two in the morning."

"Now you know."

Phasma hums, face blank. "And the garnet necklace? Did the bird steal that from you to add insult to injury? Is that why you don't have it with you?"

Hux hesitates, gritting his teeth. Every word, every thought, is heavy and thick through the medication. "No. I had to leave before I could get it. I was bleeding all over the place."

She rolls her eyes, reclining in her black leather chair. With her icy hair and her cold eyes, she looks every bit the unpleasant bitch, but Hux knows she can be nice when she wants to and is more physically capable than her looks would convey. The friend you want, the enemy you'd die for. "I know you're lying to me, Mister Curator."

He blinks, and it's crooked and uncomfortable, tugging at the tender flesh under his bandage. The socket is…empty now, and the dead feeling is worse than the new flatness of his vision. "What?"

"I have a doctorate, sir. I believe it's safe to say that I am neither stupid nor oblivious," she continues. "I know you stole that necklace; it was on the news. A tot would have noticed. Or do you think I don't know when expensive items in my expertise go missing?"

Frowning, he shakes his head. "I didn't even go inside. I was attacked on my way to the door."

"Hux," she barks, and he jumps at the use of his real name. "I know dodgy shit when I see it. Which of your men did this to you?"

"None of them," he sighs. "I swear, it was a bird this time."

"Did you do it to yourself?"

"Phasma, I swear."

"If you don't tell me—"

"Had one of them done it," he growls, "I would have killed him. You think I'd let them see me, their leader, like this?" He stands up from his chair, slightly regretting doing so as his knees feel like they've disappeared, and leans forward to rest his hands on her desk. "I would never. I'd sooner hand over the reins. And if I no longer wished to work with you, I would have killed you."

She glares up through her lashes, frowning. "How nice."

"It's the truth," he snaps, slamming his hand down on the desk. Some defiant thing wells up in his chest, and he heaves a shuddering breath. He's been robbed — he's still being robbed, now in more personal ways — and it's so far out of his control that he doesn't know what to do about it. He slams the desk again, then again. "I need _money_!" he shouts, pounding the wood emphatically. It's already April, and he's coming up far too short. "I! Need! Money! I would never rob you because you're the one who pays me! I don't have that damned necklace, and I never have!"

"Hux," she says quietly, but he's having none of it.

Backing away quickly, he draws his gun and points it at her.

"Hux," she murmurs again, brow raised.

He flicks to select and takes a deep breath. "If you have even an inkling about this so-called _Corvid_ — who they are, how they're doing this — you need to tell me right now."

Slowly, she shakes her head. "I'm as clueless as you are."

He searches her gaze for a minute, begging any ounce of recognition to give her away, but nothing shows. She just might be telling the truth. He angles away, aiming at the window, and squeezes the trigger.

She doesn't even flinch.

Sighing, he turns to leave. His emotions got the better of him for a moment, and he's going to regret it.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"It's called enucleation."

His lover frowns, drifting his fingers over the pale skin of his face where his eye should be. His own eyes well with tears.

"Don't be sad," Hux whispers, leaning into the touch. "I know I'm ugly now, but—"

Kylo cuts him off with a choked laugh. "Don't joke about that. I worried, and you warned me, but…"

"Nothing ever looks real over the phone, hm?"

"No," he sighs, "it doesn't."

Bringing a hand up to his lover's face, Hux takes a moment to admire it in as much detail as possible. He looks so flat and inexpressive compared to what he remembers. It's like looking at a paper doll, but to touch his warm cheeks and round eyes and thick lips… "I've missed you."

Kylo smiles warmly and pulls him in, hugging him tight around the shoulder. "Me, too," he whispers, holding him steady for a moment before pulling his head back to place a kiss on his jaw. "Do you have…something to cover it up with? For the exhibit?"

Hux nods, wrapping his arms around Kylo's waist. "In my bag. No one will have to see it."

He relaxes minutely, but the grimace remains firmly affixed to his face. "People will see the eye patch and talk."

"People will talk about literally anything, so I don't care. I'm fine, just fine. The car isn't, of course, but I am." He glances down to the bandages on Kylo's arm. They cover more skin than before. "Unlike you, apparently."

Their roles reverse, and Kylo is once again the one being doted upon. "It's just," he shakes his head, grimacing, "not healing. No one really knows what's wrong."

"That's not right," he murmurs, frowning. "It's been months."

He shrugs helplessly. "All we know is that it's worse when it should be better."

"But it's safe for you to be out of hospital?"

Kylo nods. "Safe enough, as long as I keep these on and take my antibiotics. Now," he sighs, stepping out of the doorway, "come inside. I'm hungry, and I want to eat before I put on my good coat."

Hux closes the door behind him and follows Kylo into the apartment, dropping his travel bag and seating himself in a barstool next to the coat Kylo loves so much. Feathers, sequins, leather; it's more garish than lavish, but it's very him.

In the next room over, the living room, the news is on.

_"...and this same signature, a black feather, has been left at crime scenes before — in the UK, they call this criminal 'the Corvid.' We have reached out to the representatives at Frick about this late-night theft and are awaiting comment."_

_Shit._ The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and a chill runs down his spine. He listens, jittery and on edge, as the news station transitions to another story. _That was it? That was all the time they spared it? 'Hey, by the way, a small-arts thief has gone international — no big deal.'_

By all rights, any normal person shouldn't care. Most people don't carry more than a passing and non-monetary interest in art, and there's no reason for him to express his. He schools his face into indifference when Kylo turns around, holding out a small plate.

"Prosciutto?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm all right. Thank you."

"Are you sure?" Kylo asks, setting the plate down on the counter next to him. "I got some bread for you, and there's fruit in the fridge."

Hux smiles, watching Kylo lift a slice of ham off the plate with his bare fingers and gracelessly shove it in his mouth. "Maybe when we get back," he suggests, half his focus still stuck on the Corvid. "I'm not very hungry at the moment."

Kylo nods. "Okay." He plucks a piece of cheese off the plate and pops it in his mouth, following it with the last couple of slices of ham and a long pull of water. "Let me wash up real quick, and we'll head out."

Luke's gallery is already lively when they arrive. The exhibit has been open for an hour, and the guests are all happily engaged, so Hux and Kylo are able to slip in relatively quietly.

But of course, Kylo is dressed like a six-foot-tall bird, so Luke picks them up before they can sneak by.

"Hey, guys!" Luke calls, walking over to greet them. "How are y— Oh!"

Hux grits his teeth and tries his best smile, returning Kylo's tightened grip on his hand. The eyepatch sits heavy on his face, and he can't ignore it. "Good evening, Luke."

"Good evening," he huffs, sizing him up. "Looking more interesting by the minute, corporal." He holds out a hand — the prosthetic one. "Welcome to the club."

Chuckling a laugh, Hux takes his hand. It shocks him lightly, as it always does, and he gives it a gentle shake. "Thank you," he mumbles, letting his fingers drift up to the patch, feeling the soft material. Kylo is on his bad side, and he has to turn his head to give him a glance. "Although, I regret that it's such a recent and domestic event…"

"Oh, I don't care how you got it." Luke smiles wide. "Kuwait, Afghanistan, in the car at home — a loss is a loss, and you'll always feel it. Say, it sure feels strange, doesn't it, being one down?"

Hux smiles tightly, and Kylo pulls him closer to his side. He wraps his arm around his waist automatically and is immediately tickled by the feathers against his neck. "No," he chokes, shoulders tensing.

Luke raises his brow.

"No," he repeats, shaking his head. Heart pounding, he casts a brief look at the gallery where he first met Kylo, where his old mate Rax showed his war paintings. Rax is dead now. "I'm well-practiced at losing things. It's not strange to me anymore."

Frowning, Luke nods. "I see. Well, all things considered, how are the both of you?"

Hux looks at Kylo once again, watches him smile.

"I think we're doing quite all right," Kylo murmurs. "Just trying to finally get settled by the end of the year, isn't that right?" He turns his eyes to Hux, imploring, begging. "By December?"

"By December," he echoes with a nod.

Luke hums. "Here in New York?"

Kylo huffs. "I hope not." His tone is clipped, and he quickly shrugs it off. "I mean, I'm fine with it for a little while longer, but we're hoping for someplace more temperate."

"Like California," Hux suggests.

"San Diego, maybe," Kylo pushes. "Wherever we can find work, obviously. But San Diego is high on the list."

"What's wrong with New York?" The old man's rumbling voice startles Hux, and Kylo tenses next to him. He takes a place opposite them, beside Luke, and surveys each of them with his pale eyes.

"Mister Snoke," Kylo mutters stiltedly, smiling at the interloper. "Hi."

"Hello, Mister Ren," the old man pronounces with a nod before turning to Hux. His eyes linger over the one side of his face, scrutinizing. "And who is this? Are you taking Mister Ren from us?"

Hux stiffens. "I—"

Kylo leans in. "Mister Snoke, this is my boyfriend, Armitage Hux. You've met him once before."

Snoke scowls, eyes narrowed. "I don't believe… Oh! Yes, of course. I remember you." His face relaxes, wrinkles settling and brows separating as he clicks his tongue. "It's been some time. You didn't have all that before." He gestures at one eye as if to clarify.

Mouth tight, Hux nods. He won't let a word slip past his lips with this rude old man around. The odd comments are best left to be fielded by Kylo, who has enough experience with his former art teacher — a regular at the gallery — to keep him at arm's length. Similarly, Luke grimaces and starts his slow shuffle away.

"Yes, it's been a while," Kylo says sharply to Snoke. "Things change, you know how it goes."

"Of course, of course." Snokes fans the air dismissively.

Outside the tight circle, Luke leans to Hux's side and clasps a strong hand on his shoulder. "You two take care. I'll see to the other guests, and then we can catch drinks when they all leave."

Hux nods and wistfully watches him flee the awkward reunion of teacher and student.

"So what's this I hear about San Diego? Is he making you go?"

Kylo huffs. "He's certainly not forcing me, no."

"Well, I can't imagine you would actually _choose_ to leave this city." Snoke's voice is grating with the snide tone. "It's your home. The city has done so much for you; you practically owe it your life. You've worked so hard here, built important relationships. You could never give it up that easily, could you?"

"He could," Hux snaps. "He will. It was his idea, and we'll be across the country before the new year. That's a promise."

All he needs is a smooth ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter! Keep an eye out for the second and third soon. I will definitely enjoy reading the comments on this one. Thank you so much!
> 
> Art by [Arstyrannus on Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus) and writing by [NymeriaKing on Twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/nymeriaking).


	2. Terrors On Repeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"We are all feeding from each other, all the time, every day." – Dave Eggers_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring more art by the lovely [ArsTyrannus](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus)!

Phasma's office is not what one would call inviting. Rather, it's very uncomfortable — intentionally so.

She does not like for anyone to dwell, nor for anyone to come in the first place. She couldn't care for company, neither business nor pleasure, and she refuses to risk her safety for the comfort of others.

The walls are cinder, the floor is concrete, and she keeps a bottle of ammonia in the corner for easy cleanup. The furniture is rigidly shaped and made of metal, and the now paneless window looks out to more concrete. The floor plan is fairly open, of course, originally designed for a swarm of office cubicles, which were here before the building was vacated and cleaned out.

It works. No one enjoys being here, including the Curator. Hux squirms frequently in an effort to keep his bones from boring through his flesh against the hard chair in which he sits for hours on end, reading endlessly on his tablet in the search for clues on the Corvid's habits.

Hours in, Phasma makes an announcement. "I think I have something."

He looks up, watches her stand from her chair and pace back and forth across the floor, and waits for her to say something.

She's quiet for a while, and then, "Magic?" Her brows draw together in doubt. "That sounds very stupid now that I've heard myself say it aloud."

"Yes," he agrees, nodding slowly. "It does."

Her shoulders slump when she looks back down at her own tablet. "Let me think on this a bit longer. Keep looking."

So Hux slouches back down in his horrible chair, sticking his nose back to the tablet and all the open pages. _Magic_ , he thinks, shaking his head. _Lots of people enjoy magic, but who would go to such lengths for something so childish?_

He opens the list again, poring over all the different pieces that have been stolen by the Corvid:

 _The horns of a goat from Galicia; three sets of cowrie shells, sewn in a necklace, gathered in a cup, and affixed to a crown; a divination veil from the Xhosa of South Africa; an old porcelain jar from Denmark, still holding ground henbane from centuries ago; a Brazilian tray used for divination; a garnet necklace from Prussia; a finely decorated_ tokkuri _from Japan; a wooden carving of a rooster from Hawai'i; a Cuban cauldron used for witchcraft; a pre-Biblical mask from Egypt…_

An eclectic selection, to be sure, but nothing more significant than exotic decoration. These are all things Hux would get orders for — things Hux _has_ gotten orders for, in fact, such as the Xhosa _amageza_ and the Cuban _nganga_. They are stolen from all over the world to stay in Western museums, and Hux steals them from the museums to be placed in finer houses.

But to whom is the Corvid taking these artifacts? Where are they going, and why? He would presume they are decoration, but if these all pertain to magic, then perhaps they're being used as more than a statement piece. Is the price for that higher?

"Wait, okay, so," Phasma mumbles, breaking the silence once more. "You said a bird attacked you?"

Hux frowns. "Yes."

"I know of a legend. It's not completely obscure, but someone like you might call it exotic."

"A legend," he repeats slowly.

"About birds," she pronounces carefully. "Ones that can be hypnotized and controlled by people."

He takes a moment to process that. "What the fuck," he mutters a minute later, standing up to address Phasma properly. He levels a finger at her. "What the fuck. That fucking anthropology degree of yours is useless."

She rolls her eyes. "This is the only lead I can find, Hux. No one I talk to has ever heard a smidgen of a single word of someone in the area brokering odd little artworks like us. Until we understand whether it's one person or many and whether it's for business or personal, all I can piece together is that someone is controlling a bird to steal magical things, and they used the bird to attack you. Conveniently, magpies are corvids, which would be quite the coincidence, name-wise." She shrugs. "Otherwise, the Corvid is a host of ghosts."

Hux nods. "Of course." A sigh forces itself out of his chest, and his lungs burn out of frustration. "Of course, they have to be this good. Of course, they have to leave no trace. Of course, it has to be so fucking mysterious that we're chasing fucking legends!"

Crossing her arms, Phasma shakes her head. "Look, maybe we should give this obsession a rest."

"Obsession?"

"They're not only international, but intercontinental," she continues. "They're going to slip up eventually, and they'll be very easy to catch when they do. No one goes on this long at that rate."

"Obsession," he repeats once more. "You think I'm obsessed with the Corvid?"

She shrugs. "You're definitely getting yourself worked up beyond what it's worth, considering we can't seem to find any clues. There's no use worrying about what you can't control. If you lose, you lose."

Blood rushes to his skin and pounds in his ears. "Well, I'm extremely worked up no matter what," he grits out. "I'm not obsessed with the Corvid; I'm obsessed with the fact that I'm _losing_. I'm losing in France, in Germany, _at home_. I'm losing my money and my future. I'm losing my _mind_. Th-this can't continue. One of us has to go."

Phasma's gaze darkens. "Go?"

"Anywhere else." He bites his lip, hesitant to speak what's been on his mind since the year kicked off. "Into another line of work."

"Like what?"

"Like cash."

"No," she snaps, white in the face.

"Cash is king."

"Cash is…exclusive."

He nods. "Yeah, and I need the money. I can still feed you, but—"

"You're going to get caught," she nearly shouts. "You can't spread yourself that thin and come out of it unscathed. I need my product from you, but that means I also need you to consistently be here."

Hux bites his lip and shrugs, gesturing to his eyepatch. "I'm not unscathed as it is. This thing is a fucking bitch. Every time I walk into something, I think of—" he clamps his jaw shut, connection because the magpie and the Corvid shakily drawn. "I'm getting to a point where I don't care." His heart pounds in his chest, and he watches her for a minute, gauging her reaction as he gauges his own nerve.

She doesn't give him any more than that same intense stare as she speaks. "I don't want to do business with you anymore."

He could hear that sentiment coming loud and clear from last month's tap of a firing pin and crash of busted glass. He's too desperate now, he knows. He nods.

"I will continue to do so only because I need to," she murmurs, "but I don't _want_ to. You've gotten reckless over the past couple of years, verging on aggressive, and I can't keep risking myself by being attached to you for much longer, especially if you're to start barging into banks."

He nods again. "Until we stop doing business together, I fully expect to hear everything you learn about the Corvid. If they leave, I won't have to resort to…that."

"Everything?"

"Everything that makes sense."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

The cold water is a shock. It rolls over his face, almost burning, and drops down into the empty sink below with a quiet splash. The cold is a welcome rarity, though, because New York was not made for June.

Hux looks up at his reflection and scowls in distaste. His skin is too pale, his eye is too pale, his hair is too pale; he looks completely washed out, devoid of life. The only remarkable thing is…

He brings a finger up to the mirror, tracing over the glass where his face looks back. The reality still hasn't hit him quite as hard as he's been anticipating. He knows he's lost an eye. It's been gone for a while now. A bird did it. A freak accident.

The physical repercussions are apparent to him, definitely as unenjoyable as one would imagine, but somehow, it's just not taking a harsh bite out of him.

It's like all this information saved straight to his 'move on' folder and didn't once hit his 'anxieties' folder, which is unusual, to say the least. Maybe it's because he _is_ used to losing things, as he told Luke and as he tried to convince himself. Maybe it's because he's worrying about bigger things, worrying about the Corvid and his money and Kylo and—

"Hey."

Startled, Hux whips around, gaze snapping to Kylo. "Hey."

"You're taking a while," he mutters, leaning against the door frame. His fine satin shirt hangs delicately from his shoulders, dipping low over his chest, and Hux can't help but stare at his arm, which is now in a sling. "Thought I'd come check on you, make sure you're okay."

His brow creases before he remembers the concern. Dinner's on the table; he was only in here to wash his hands. "Oh, I'm sorry. I got…," he swallows, "distracted." He grabs the towel off the wall and dries his face, then his hands.

"By what?"

He hangs the towel back up and bites a lip. "By you."

Kylo's eyes open wide, and he raises his brow, pointing at his bare chest. "I've been in the kitchen."

"I know," Hux huffs with a short laugh, sidling up to him and pulling him into his arms. He presses a kiss to his neck, then to his cheek, then to his lips. "You just worry me, is all."

Kylo jerks back suddenly and steps away from him, voice breaking. "Well, sorry for being so fragile. I didn't know my ailments were all you think about." With that, he turns and heads back out to the kitchen.

Reeling, Hux follows on his heels. "Babe? Kylo?"

Kylo shakes his head and doesn't look back at him, instead focusing on putting out plates and flatware and serving the food. With his dominant arm restricted, he struggles a bit, but he still manages to get the food served and pull out Hux's chair for him before seating himself on the other end of the table.

"Kylo?" he asks again.

"Please sit and eat while the food is warm," Kylo mumbles, sniffling once.

Slowly, Hux walks the rest of the way to the table and takes his seat. He picks up his fork but doesn't use it, instead watching Kylo fumble his very rare steak. "Kylo."

He gasps, still looking resolutely down at his plate. A long moment passes before he says anything. "I love you."

Hux blinks, frowning. "I—"

"I want _that_ to be what you think about when you're with me," he continues in a whisper. "I don't want you thinking about anything else — just me, the part of me that matters." When he finally looks up at Hux, he looks scared, eyes as wide as the moon. "Don't think about the seizures. Don't think about my arm. Don't think about all the pointless fucking testing I have to go through. I hardly get to spend any time with you, and you spend it worrying. None of that matters; it's not who I am. I _love you_ , and _that_ is what matters."

By the end of it, Hux has put his head down. Thunder rumbles in the distance, filling the empty air. He sighs. "I'm sorry. How is work? Has it been good?"

"I lost a client," Kylo scoffs, "so I'm low on funds. But that was two months ago." He gasps again and drops his fork onto his plate with a clatter. "Wish we could talk about real things."

Hux brings his hands to his face, rubbing at his temples and closing his eyes. "I never meant to make you feel that way, and I'm sorry that I did. I love you, too, and that's why I worry. I still think about you in many ways, but I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

The thunder cracks much closer this time, startling Hux back upright. Kylo's face is downturned, and he keeps panting. "I don't— I don't feel good."

"Oh, Kylo," he sighs, scrambling out of his chair and around the table to help him. He grabs him around the waist as he gets out of his chair, helping guide him to the bedroom.

"I can walk," Kylo hisses, struggling to break his grip. 

"Until you can't." That earns him a look, and he frowns right back. "I'm not here to carry you. I'm here to catch you."

"You're such a," he chuckles and crawls onto the bed, leaving the sentence unfinished as he rolls onto his back. "Shit."

"Let's take this off of you," Hux murmurs, bending over him to remove the sling from around his neck. "This thing can't be safe. Why do you wear it anyway?"

Kylo takes a few seconds to respond, staring up at the ceiling. "Bones." Another long pause. "Weak."

He hums and lies down beside him, grabbing his shoulder to roll him so they're facing each other. "Of course. That's why you take your vitamins." The bandage on his arm is even longer now and reinforced with a soft cast. Hux tucks it up between them, trying to keep Kylo comfortable. "All right?" he murmurs.

Kylo stares right through him, motionless but for a tremble in his hand and a pained look on his face. "A-all right," he whispers back. 

As the mild shake spreads to his shoulders, Hux pushes his dark hair back out of his face and presses a kiss to his forehead. "I love you."

Bright light blasts out from behind the curtains with a deafening quake, and the room goes black.

In the darkness, Hux gently holds onto Kylo as his body slumps and shakes all over, keeping him on his side, even as his bare skin feels like it's burning. He's never understood these, how they creep up so suddenly only to slowly take him over. 

After what must be a couple of minutes, the quivering fades. The lights flicker back on, and he stirs, blinking more normally. Hux accepts him as he burrows deeper into his arms and falls asleep.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

_"I have an expedited timeline for you. None of that daytime shit."_

Hux frowns. "Are you sure, Phas?"

_"Of course. I want to squeeze every last penny out of you before I cut you off."_

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"One month?"

"One month," Hux confirms. "I can't promise I'll be focused on this company any longer than that."

Peavey hums, leaning back in his chair. "I presume you have a conflicting offer already?"

He smiles. "My own business, actually. It's really grown, and I need to dedicate more time to it."

"Very well, then. I'm sure you'll be missed around the office. I'll send this to HR, and they will inform you of your entitlements."

"Thank you, Mister Peavey."

"Thank you, Mister Hux."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

_"Well, I was just a baby during the Gulf War when Luke got injured, so he has been called 'Cold Hand Luke' for as long as I've known him."_

_A snort forces its way through Hux, rocking his shoulders and stretching his mouth into a smile. "That's brilliant." Around him, the air of Kylo's flat is cold on his skin. He pulls the covers of the bed further up, covering his bruised chest. Kylo's soft lips left spots darker than Hux could believe; he was practically taking all the blood from under his skin._

_"Did you have a nickname?" Kylo asks, blinking up at him demurely. His hair is messily fanned over his face and the pillow behind him, shadowing him in evidence of their earlier activities. It's the only thing that keeps Hux comfortable enough to talk about things he'd rather leave behind._

_"Starkiller."_

_Kylo hums. "What's that mean?"_

_With a grimace, Hux wriggles himself deeper into the bed. "Um, well, ah…" He bites a lip, wondering where to start. "Do you know what tracers are?"_

_"Tracers?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"Not a clue."_

_Hux nods. "Okay," he sighs. "Well, they're basically just pyrotechnic rounds that show the path of your fire. They're bright, bright red. So for example, when you're shooting long range after dark, and you can't otherwise see where your hits are landing, tracers are especially useful. When you fire a stream of bullets, some of them light up, and you get to see a stream of either bright or very bright dots going the same way."_

_"Sounds pretty," Kylo murmurs._

_"It is." That's what Hux hates about it. "When it's late at night, and all the stars are shining, and you're raining hell on somebody, it's like even the dim outshine the stars."_

_"So you killed stars?"_

_"So I killed stars," Hux whispers with a nod. "A lot of them, all the time."_

_The look on Kylo's face is unreadable, and he's quiet for a while. "Oh."_

_He shrugs. "It's easier to kill people in the dark."_

_Kylo is silent. His lips are red, and his pupils are blown, and it could be either a fear response or a sex response. A minute passes, and he is still silent. He doesn't break eye contact with Hux, but he doesn't do more than breathe either. Given the violence of their affair, the bruises and bites Hux has across his chest and neck, he'd bet he's stoking Kylo's kink with this killing story._

_It's not his finest, though, so he drops it. He reaches over and gently scoops up Kylo's hand, letting it rest in his. It's warm, heavy, larger than his own. "Enough about the shitty things I did. Tell me about yourself. You like art, yeah?"_

_"Yeah." He musters a sliver of a smile, face still splotchy. "I, um, can't really afford the hobby anymore, but I used to sculpt and paint all the time." He gulps, shifts a little under the covers, clears his throat. "I went to art school, but halfway through, I did something really stupid, and my parents cut me off. So I dropped out, and now I'm scraping by on five tiny salaries as a personal assistant."_

_He hums, curious. "What was the bad thing you did, if I may ask?"_

_"I stole my dad's car and totaled it."_

_"Holy shit."_

_"Yeah," Kylo huffs with a rueful smile. "So I stay here in the city where I don't have to drive, and they stay upstate where they don't have to see me."_

_Hux hums again as it dawns on him. "So the name…"_

_A packet of crisps pops at his feet. Shit. Shit. Shit._

_Hux holds his breath. Shit! Shit!_

_"It's a legal change." Kylo shrugs. "So now we're even? You feel shitty about your past, and I feel shitty about mine."_

"Fuck!" Hux's eyes snap open, and he sucks in a deep, ragged breath, fumbling at his head. He's in bed. He's at home, and he's in bed. He has no helmet. He doesn't need one. He needs to breathe.

Something over to his left is still exploding, bright white and hot.

No, he can't even see on that side, so how could it be real?

His heart is racing, and something is buzzing.

The phone.

He reaches over to the nightstand next to the bed, grasping for the phone, but he doesn't feel anything. Turning his head to look, he sees it isn't there.

The buzzing stops.

Sitting up, he leans over the edge of the bed and picks it up from the floor. It must have fallen.

**Kylo (2)**

He curses, and the phone starts vibrating again with another video call, sending a painful pulse through his chest. He quickly combs his hair back and accepts, blinking at the brightness of the screen.

_"Hey, sexy."_

He frowns. "What?"

 _"I called your shirtless body sexy,"_ Kylo purrs, a slow grin spreading over his face before faltering. _"Are you in bed?"_

The question gives him pause, and he looks around at his bedroom again, taking in the bed and closet and nightstand. Slowly, Hux nods and leans back against the pillows. "I'm in bed, yeah," he tells himself. "I've been in bed. I was asleep when you called. Sorry about that."

_"Oh, no. I didn't mean to wake you up. I'm sorry."_

"It's," Hux pauses, shaking his head, "no big deal. It's the middle of the day, after all." He swallows, glancing back over to the nightstand where he left his phone. The sound of it falling must have been what he heard, sudden and loud, more effective than any caffeine.

_"Are you sick?"_

He hums, "no. No, I'm fine, just tired." He'd hit up another cache early in the morning, per one of Phasma's directives. "I didn't really sleep last night."

 _"Oh, okay,"_ Kylo sighs, relieved. _"Well, I was calling because, um…"_ He's quiet for a few seconds while he chews his lip. _"I got a bill from insurance last week, and—"_

"How much is it?" Hux interrupts, uneager to hear it.

Kylo hesitates. _"Just over two-thousand dollars."_

He curses and brings a hand up to his face, rubbing his forehead. Kylo had lost a client, and he had basically forgotten. "Are you still trying to fill the slot that opened a few months ago?"

 _"Yeah,"_ he murmurs. _"And most don't tip well, and Snoke never tips at all."_

He curses again. "Since when is Snoke a client of yours?

Kylo gives him a flat look. _"Since a couple years ago. You would have known this sooner if you paid more attention."_

A bad feeling settles in his stomach, though it may simply have been living there all this time, and Hux shakes his head. "You know I don't like him, Kylo."

 _"And you don't have to deal with him, only I do, so just relax."_ He lowers his head, clearly frustrated, and sighs. _"And it's guaranteed money, so it's not like I'm going to dump him. Besides, he knows everything about me already, so…"_

"So, what?" he asks, mouth twisting. "You're scared to resign?"

 _"No."_ Kylo frowns. _"I just can't. We know each other, so it works out very easily. He pays me steadily, and that's what matters. But I'm still down twenty-thousand a year, so—"_

Hux lifts a hand to shut him up. He's still too groggy and distracted to think about this in any detail. Pick a number — a big one. "I'll send you five for now."

 _"Hux,"_ Kylo murmurs, eyes wide. He's quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. _"That's a lot. Are you sure?"_

"If you could make rent this month, you'd be too proud to ask," he reasons. In actuality, it doesn't amount to much anyway. He could painlessly transfer ten grand if it weren't suspicious. "I'm sure. Sorry for arguing."

Kylo's eyes seem to twinkle. _"Thank you. I love you. Sorry if this sets you back."_

Yawning, Hux shrugs. "My money is your money. You shouldn't worry about a thing." Somewhere in his chest, something is still fluttering around frantically, slowly suffocating him. "Can I call you back?"

_"Yeah."_

He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the bed, cradling his head in his hands. He needs a smoke.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁ 

"We have to step it up. Stay serious, stay focused, and most importantly, _know_ what it is you're taking. No fuck-ups. None."

The men in the room all watch attentively as Hux speaks.

"You all have extra assignments to make up for this interloper, and I expect to see every penny." He bares his teeth. "Don't disappoint."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

The timer in Hux's head hits red, and he curses to himself. The one time he goes completely solo is the one time he slips up. He knew he was fucked when two minutes had passed before the stupid ivory snake was in his hands, and now…

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Peeking over the edge of the roof, he sees the flashing lights pulling into the car park. He can't go back down through the building; the security personnel's earnings won't turn their gaze anymore. He has to jump.

He peeks down again, and the ground is _right there_. But he's three floors up? He knows for a fact that he's on the roof, that he's over ten meters up, but it's hard to judge the distance by sight now. The stone will fucking kill him, he knows, but there's grass maybe 50 meters toward the back. He sprints down, ivory snake and black toolbag in hand, and crouches behind the short wall. He can't jump when the police are still outside, but he can't wait until a security guard reaches the roof.

He takes another look and, upon seeing some bushes, tosses the sculpture and bag down into them. Over the blaring alarm, he can't hear a thing, but they'll likely turn it off if he waits too long.

"Shit," he mutters, clenching his fists.

It's been over ten years since airborne school, and he hasn't made a jump like this in a long time.

But he remembers.

Ball, calf, thigh, hip, chest.

He remembers the guarding arms, the lifted legs, the bent knees, the flop, the roll, the crunch.

He's going to fucking regret this.

After three deep breaths, he backs away from the wall. Then, he runs. And he jumps.

For a moment, all he knows is fresh air.

And then his feet touch the ground, and he rolls forward to his right. His feet and knee soften the impact that his arm takes, but he still hears the crack as he lands slightly too forward and curls himself into the long roll.

When he comes to a stop, he locks a scream inside his chest. His right leg throbs, and his arm is on fire. But he doesn't have time to think about that. He takes two quick breaths and forces himself up. His legs are fine. His back is fine. His head is fine.

And his things are in the bushes. He dashes to them, collecting them with his good arm, and hauls ass out of there.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"I can't give you drugs."

"I don't want drugs," Hux hisses. "I want my arm put back together."

"How did you do this?"

"I jumped three stories."

Rey stares at him. "You jumped three stories."

"Down, obviously. Not up."

She rolls her eyes, pointing the x-ray generator at his arm where it rests on the table. "Obviously. I'm just curious how your legs are. You're walking on them."

"Bruised," he offers, hissing. "Right knee is maybe a little torn up, but not catastrophic. But you're not here to ask questions. You're here to work." His head is swimming with colors and swirls in the effort to block out the pain. He's had more than enough whisky to drown a horse, and he barely made it through the night, waiting for her to open the office.

"You're lucky it's Saturday. I wouldn't be able to take you this late in the morning otherwise."

He groans, squinting at the posters on the wall opposite him — a dog size chart showing how much fat should cover the ribs, an infographic about dog vaccine schedules, a picture of a sick kitten.

"Wait here. I'm going to give your arm a look."

Hux keeps staring at the wall, arm limp on the table.

The door opens again, and when Hux looks up, it's some man he's never seen before. His heart nearly stops but for the man's look of shock.

"Who are you?"

"Who are you?" Hux retorts.

"I'm one of Doctor Jack's techs. I work here," he says slowly. He looks at Hux's bruised arm, then down at his dark clothes, then up at his eyepatch. "Are you some sort of Bond villain or something? Like a crime boss?"

It shocks a short laugh out of Hux, then a full round of muffled giggles. "No," he huffs. "I'm an art curator, actually. Black is sort of the dress code in our industry, and I got the eyepatch after losing a fight with a bird." Not a lie told.

The vet tech blinks a few times while processing the story, then seems to accept it with a shrug. "All right, then. Um, why are you here?"

Hux looks down at his arm, then back up at the tech. "Don't get Doctor Jack's license revoked over me. She's faster than the human docs. No frills."

He creases his brow in doubt and makes to speak, but Rey walks back in, and he jumps to attention. "Hi, Doctor Jack."

"Good morning, Finn," she greets. "Have you talked to your modelling friend like I asked this morning?"

"Modelling…"

"Three-dee," she clarifies. "Not, like, Gisele."

"Oh! Poe, yes." He nods quickly. "He said he can do that thing you asked about."

She smiles brilliantly. "Great! I'm glad you're right here because this man," she gestures to Hux, "is who I need that cast printed for. He can't really afford to be weighed down by those plaster ones, and we need it as soon as possible."

Finn's brows shoot high up, and he looks back at Hux. "Oh. Um. Okay."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"Ninety-thousand," Phasma drawls. "Split that thirty-two percent, sixteen, sixteen, sixteen, and then twenty for the public, and you get—"

"Not enough," Hux interjects. He studies the cigarette between his fingers, watches it get shorter and shorter — the worst fucking metaphor for his time and his temper right about now. "I need more. I need all the jobs I can get my hands on."

She scoffs, and he glares up at her. She shakes her head. "You quit smoking years ago, and look at you now. This year isn't even half over, and you've already lost an eye and broken an arm. Don't you know bad things come in threes?"

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

Since Phasma doesn't give Hux an extra job, and he has a week available, he decides to give himself a job.

He's done daytime robberies before. He's never done it to an armored truck before.

It is _alarmingly_ easy to steal a car, stage a minor traffic collision on a country road, shoot the driver in the neck, drive the truck further along the route, move the money into a new car, drive back in the direction of the collision, and simply get away with it. Most of the work is the speedy laundering, but that's what Phasma is for.

What isn't easy is making sure everyone is clear on the rules.

It takes a long weekend and a lot of photographs and even a few fights, but Hux manages to meet with every person on the payroll, including those who wouldn't have considered their schedule open.

The week brings on a new high that Hux could ride forever, so when Phasma asks him to take as many of the seven _mahiole_ from the British Museum as possible, he accepts without hesitation.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

For all the times that Hux has had his targets stolen the same night he planned to rob him, this is the first time he's ever physically encountered the trouble.

The beginning went smoothly. Hux knows the British Museum like the back of his hand. Casing the place and locating all seven helmets was easy, especially with so many workers on his payroll.

The middle went just as smoothly. Hux took all three of his men with him, Mitaka, Thannison, and Opan, and they took only two minutes and ten seconds to get from entry to exit. He even managed to snag a decorative obsidian dagger, something small for his private collection.

The trouble comes at the end, when Hux hears strange footsteps before he's ordered the bonds released. No one but the four should be moving anywhere.

Immediately, Hux tosses his one bag to Opan. "Get out." When the three men flee, Hux turns to the direction the sound is coming from and—

He hits the ground, burning white all over his body, even the inside. He's felt pain like this before, but just once.

When the electricity coursing through him finishes grounding, he can hardly move. And _oh_ , his arm. Still in the cast, still broken, it throbs at his side. Something hits his gut, rolling him over, and he groans. He blinks up at the interloper, but through his mask, all he can see is black.

Black everything — black shoes, black pants, black shirt, black mask, black gloves. "That's _mine_ ," the man growls, bending low over him and swinging his elbow back.

Hux barely manages to turn his face away from the blow, but it still rocks his brain and turns his cheek to mush. That gloved fist hits him again and again before his senses come back to him. 

With a burst of strength, he sits up as much as he can, clobbering the stranger with his fist and knocking him off balance. Now free, Hux jumps up and grabs at his face, taking the nose firmly in his grasp and pushing upwards as he swings his fist into the man's gut over and over again. When the man stumbles back, Hux runs.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"I think it was him," Hux professes, dangling his silver dagger by the hilt with the lightest of grips. Underneath the concealer, his face is still pounding, badly bruised, and some of the scrapes still show. At the least the brute had the decency to hit the eyeless side. "I think it was the Corvid. I was _that_ close." He takes a drag, reaching for that iota of calmness he's been missing.

Phasma watches him carefully, brow creased in thought. "Don't scratch that tablet."

"What," Hux breathes, looking down through the smoke. The blade swings dangerously close to the surface, ghosting over the list of things thought to be stolen by the Corvid. "This tablet?"

"Yes, th—"

He forces the dagger down into the screen, and it flickers white and magenta, going stripey and staticky with the intrusion.

Phasma purses her lips. "Really?"

"Really. All these things belong to me." He sits up straight and smirks. "I kicked his ass, you know."

"And beat him at his own game," she points out with a shrug. "But, and I feel this is important to stress, do not stretch yourself too thin. Remember, bad things come in threes, and you've had two in only half a year. Another shoe _will_ drop, what can go wrong will go wrong, all that. Promise me you'll be careful, or you'll find yourself fenceless."

Barely resisting the urge to roll his eye, he nods. "I promise. Everything will be all right." 

⌁ ⸸ ⌁ 

"Our GPR died exceptionally early on during this mission," Hux mumbles, retelling the same old tale for the hundredth time to a new crowd. Kylo is right by his side every time they come to Luke's, and he laughs every time the same punch comes, looking extravagant in swaths of black. It's all Hux can do, telling the fun stories from Afghanistan instead of the more regular ones.

This time, though, Kylo's old art teacher — and current PA client — is also present. He hovers toward the back of the small audience, scowling as Hux charms everyone else with the strange tale.

"This was back in oh-six," Hux continues, "so it was still relatively new to us at the time, but we had grown used to the warbling sound that the radar made. It was sort of like a turkey, if you can imagine that.

"We always carry an extra battery, so it should've lasted sixteen hours, but the first battery died after an hour, so we knew we were in trouble. We put the second battery in, and within half an hour, the GPR was totally dead.

"So, we're walking in the grape rows, and there are always IEDs in the grape rows, and we suddenly had no way of detecting them." Hux gives a deep frown to sell the solemnity. "One wrong step, and our minesweeper, Matt, would have been killed."

Kylo occasionally places a hand on the juncture of Hux's neck and chest, covering the old, faint, almost disappeared scar there as if he could stem up the whole war that way. Every story Hux has is more than a decade old, but Kylo still clings tight to his arm, hanging onto every word, and the few others who are listening also lean in, waiting to hear the outcome of the dire situation. Except Snoke, of course, who continues to scowl.

"Matt, still holding the GPR out in front of him, looks back at us, and we all look back at Matt, stopped in our tracks. The GPR is totally silent. We're screwed.

"And then Matt looks down at the ground, and then back up at us, then back down at the ground, then back at us." Face still stern, Hux takes a deep breath, allowing the dramatic pause to take effect. "And he gathers his courage, takes one step forward, and then we hear it."

Making an 'O' with his mouth and sticking his tongue out between his lips, Hux gobbles.

"Matt makes the radar noises himself." He gobbles again, and the small crowd devolves into giggles. "We really had no choice but to trust his fake radar and follow him as he pretended to sweep the ground and find imaginary IEDs." He gobbles more loudly to imitate the GPR hitting something, and Kylo wheezes with the rest of them. "He'd say, 'don't step over there, definitely a bomb right there,' and we'd make sure to avoid it.

"And the best part? No one got hurt that day." He sighs heavily. "Not one death during the entire deployment." _During_ , of course, being the operative word. They've had plenty since they got back.

Carefully wiping tears from his black-lined eyes, Kylo clears his throat. "That's a miracle if I've ever heard one."

"That's dumb luck," Snoke mutters from the back. "Anyone with a brain would have been scared shitless, but you children these days are idiots. Back in Vi—"

Hux frowns, gritting his teeth. "I—"

"Mister Snoke," Kylo snaps, cutting both of them off with a snarl. His face is still flushed from his laughter, and he lets go of Hux and starts striding off. "Would you like to come around to the back with me? I've been meaning to speak with you about something."

Snoke follows after Kylo, rounding a corner and disappearing further into the small gallery.

Hux, now alone with the few guests, grimaces and shrugs. "I'm all out of stories, I'm afraid."

When Kylo comes back from his talk with Snoke, he looks wan. Hux doesn't even say goodbye to Luke on their way out.

"All right?"

Kylo groans, hands repeatedly brushing over his forehead. After passing the hippy place next door to his uncle's gallery and being assaulted by a curtain of stupid beads, he'd thrown up and been wide-eyed and tense the whole ride back to the apartment, but it had rapidly progressed once they got in the door.

"No?" Hux probes after receiving no answer.

He groans again. "No." It sounds forced, like his throat is tight. It probably is.

Hux pushes him back and urges him to slide up the bed. "Go on, get up there," he orders, but Kylo keeps dipping his head down in odd directions, so he has to climb up with him and position him himself. The fancy garments are a hindrance, and he should've taken them off when they got inside, but it's too late now. They're going to be made a mess of. "Come on, can you look at me?"

Kylo doesn't respond. Instead, his raises his shaking hands again to rub over his forehead.

"Babe," Hux sighs, biting his lip in anguish. He takes Kylo's hands in his own and pulls them away from his face so he can see his eyes. He can see they're listing hard to the left, but he whimpers softly at the light, and Hux lets him put his hands back. "Sorry." It's not overly bright — the summer storm does plenty to mute the light — but the curtains are open enough to be bothersome.

"No," Kylo mumbles. "Don't be— don't be s-sorry. I'm…" He trails off, spends a few seconds in silence. "I love you."

Hux isn't one to cry, but he can feel a slight burning at the words. He feels so helpless against these seizures, like all he can do is watch, but his lover is still thinking of him through it. "Is it almost over?"

"I…" He pants a few times, big, deep breaths like before a dive. "I can get through it."

Settling down next to him and putting a hand up to help him block out the light, Hux tries to count the seconds, at least idly. "Do you think you'll, y'know…?"

Kylo bares his teeth, half smile and half hurt, and shakes his head, but it's sloppy and uncoordinated. "No, no, no," he slurs. "It's not that bad."

Hux frowns, but nods nonetheless. There's nothing he can do to shorten this. It's been probably about two minutes now, so all that should be left is just riding the tail end of the wave. He holds Kylo close and whispers to him and waits for everything to slow down and stop, and when it's over, he lets Kylo sleep.

When Kylo wakes, it's the typical confused mumbling and attempts to get out of bed when he should still be resting.

"No," Hux murmurs, pulling him back down into the warmth of the covers. "You've worked extremely hard and exerted yourself beyond all reasonable measure, so you need to stay here with me."

"What?"

"Sleep, Kylo."

He tries getting up again, this time making it out of Hux's loose grip and off the edge of the bed.

Hux winces at the thud. "Shit." He tosses the covers aside and rolls out much more easily, rounding the bed to tend to Kylo. He drops into a crouch to be on level and reaches a hand out. "Come on."

Kylo stares at it, frowning. The gears churning in his brain are almost visible.

"You have a question on the tip of your tongue, don't you?" Hux asks. He always does.

He nods.

"But you don't know how to say it because you don't know what it is?"

He nods again.

"That's because you had another seizure, and you're still recovering," Hux explains softly. "You remember how that goes?"

This time, Kylo's eyes get wet and glimmery when he nods.

He sighs. "Okay, then. You can go to the bathroom, but then back to bed. I'll bring you something to eat next time you wake up, but for now, drink some of that water on your nightstand and get some rest."

When he wakes up again and again and again, after a day of naps and light snacking, Kylo is a little more himself.

"You should get back on dilantin," Hux whispers into his neck. "I hate seeing you like this. It's just getting worse."

Kylo sighs and shakes his head. "I can't. My arm, it's…" He huffs. "It's fucked. The infection inside the bone has weakened it, and it's just fucked. Dilantin made that possible. Not to mention how it made me constantly feel like jumping out of this window."

Pained at the thought, Hux tightens his grip on him. "It's been six full months now, hasn't it?"

Kylo hums his assent.

"That's an awfully long time. A burn wound should've healed by now. And antibiotics should fix the—"

"You think I don't know all this?"

"No," Hux drawls, "I'm just saying. I'm worried about it."

"Stop," Kylo snaps, sitting up. "Stop fucking worrying about it. You worry too fucking much about this shit, and it's driving me insane. Why don't you worry about other things? Why don't you worry about the things that actually worry _me_ , huh?"

Slowly, Hux sits up to look Kylo in the eye, but then he's gone in a flurry, heading out to the living room. "Kylo?" he calls, following after him.

He bumps into the door jamb, but as soon as he rounds the corner, Kylo is on him, pushing him back with overly hot hands. "You don't care about me," he growls, "so leave me alone."

He snorts. "I _do_ care about you, and that's why I want you to get better. You should ask your doctor if—"

"Fuck the doctor, Hux! I don't give a shit!" He tosses his arms in the air. "That's not important!"

"It is important," Hux insists. "It's your _life_ , Kylo."

Kylo snorts. "My life is a lot more than that, but you don't fucking care, do you? I have shit going on! I have a life! But you don't listen, and you're almost never here, and you keep promising you'll move in with me one day, and you never fucking do. You clearly don't love me." The words hang in the air for a moment. "I'm not sure if you ever have."

Gritting his teeth, Hux strides toward Kylo and wraps his arms around his waist, but Kylo yelps and fights his way out of it.

"That hurts! Don't fucking touch me," he spits, smacking Hux with a hot hand. "Instead of worrying about me, why not yourself!"

Hux snaps. He steps forward and plants his hands into Kylo's chest, pushing him down to the floor and snarling at him. "That's the whole fucking point, Kylo! I do worry myself! I do! That's why I fucking focus on you! I love you a lot more than I love myself, and I'll be fucking damned if I sit in a fucking hospital all day because I think I'll kill myself. I don't want to think about that — I want to think about you. And I worry! I can't stop worrying! It's all I can do because I'm so far away all the time, and I'm not a fucking doctor, and I can't fucking help you. It hurts!

"Because I love you! I do! I've loved you since that stupid fucking night that I met you, and every day since then, I have been working my arse off to give you what you want. You have no idea what I've been going through these past few years. You have no idea how much work I've been putting in to make your dreams come true. You could never imagine! Never! I have put my own life at stake to give you everything you deserve, so you have no fucking right to tell me that I don't love you."

When he's done, his face is hot, and his head is pounding, and he almost can't see and definitely can't hear anything over the rush of blood. He smacks himself in the face to force his focus, taking deep breaths to cool off. Then he looks down at Kylo, who is quiet, and his stomach churns.

Another one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [ArsTyrannus](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus) and writing by [NymeriaKing](https://mobile.twitter.com/nymeriaking). Looking forward to your comments!! Thank you!


	3. Robbed Blind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love is the only criminal who, after stealing your heart, convinces you to celebrate her." – Matshona Dhliwayo_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're at the end! Please enjoy TWO new pieces by [ArsTyrannus](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus)! Hope you enjoy!

The coffee shop is cute, like an autumn dream. It's small and cozy, there's music playing, and every worker and patron has a smile on their face. 

Except for Kylo.

He contrasts starkly with the shop around him, all dark and morose and synthetic, stirring his tea idly but not drinking any of it — the seizures always kill his appetite before turning him ravenous. His costumery is compensating for his sickliness. He can barely muster the energy to glare, eyes consumed instead by dark circles, but the severe clothes lend their sharpness to the occasional glance. His hair is immaculately styled, his feather earrings dangle elegantly, and he is every bit the picture of mourning.

It's only been twelve hours since their fight, and most of the twelve were spent in silence. The air was heavy enough with their negative thoughts, so neither fought it. After nearly another hour of silence spent between them at the little cafe, leaving Hux itching remorse, he cracks.

"Kylo," he whispers. "Please."

Kylo glances up and holds his gaze for a few seconds. He shakes his head and looks back down at his phone. "I'm tired, Hux."

His heart clenches. "Don't say that."

"It's true." He shrugs minutely. "I feel like everything is falling apart, including you."

Suddenly nauseated, Hux brings a hand to his mouth and turns away. It takes a minute before he can say anything back. "I'm not going anywhere."

"That's the problem," Kylo hisses, and Hux looks back across the table, eyeing him warily. He frowns. "You're frozen. You're stuck behind on things I'm moving past. I-I can't live with you like this."

"You can't…live…," he mumbles, trailing off. 

"With you," Kylo finishes.

Everything he's done — all the risk, the late nights, the fights, the flights, the time off work, quitting his job, growing his empire… 

Five years. And it's not enough. The Corvid had to come along and drag him down, and now his window is closing. It's too late.

Hux leans forward on the table, hunching in, pleading. "B-but I've been doing everything I-I-I can. I've been saving up my money. I told you this year would be it. And it will be. I—"

Kylo scoffs. "Hux."

"Kylo, please," he begs. "Please, just hold on. Only a little while longer. Christmas. I'll be here for Christmas. To stay. I promise."

He hesitates, looks at Hux in scorn, sighs. " _If_ you can leave me alone until then, let me cool off, then we'll see if I can take you back at Christmas." Shaking his head, he stares back down at his tea for a moment before closing his eyes. "I have a lot of shit going on right now. I'm broke, and I need to focus on work. I've spent too long relying on you."

Slowly, Hux nods, shrinking back in his chair. He watches Kylo with a swirling head, processing the tentative agreement they just came to. "I'm sorry for taking so long," he whispers. "But it'll be worth it in the end. I—"

"Save it," he murmurs, looking away. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before settling on some words. "I would never have stuck around for so long if…"

Hux flinches, expecting the rest of the sentence to sting, but he takes pause when he sees that Kylo is staring off with his mouth agape. "Are you all right? Is it another…?"

He doesn't say anything, but he looks at Hux and then back in the direction he had been before. Hux follows his gaze to the television screen.

_"The New York Police Department has released a statement today detailing the arrest of Gerald Snoke, a man alleged to be behind the infamous heists performed by who some are calling 'the Corvid.' He was taken into custody late last night…"_

"Holy shit," Hux mutters, heart racing. The Corvid. He always knew he would slip up. It's another chance, his saving grace. He can make up for what he's lost and get back to Kylo even sooner.

And then, "holy shit," when he realizes that this man used to be Kylo's art teacher and paying client. "Kylo, I'm so sorry."

Kylo starts, snapping his gaze to Hux and lowering his brow. "Sorry about what?"

"About, you know." He gestures to the television. "Your teacher. Your income. This must be quite the shock."

"Oh," he sighs, brow still furrowed. "Um, yeah." He nods slowly. "It is." Then he begins to shake his head. "Sorry, I need to go see Luke. Goodbye." With that, he gets up from the table and walks out of the coffee shop with heavy steps.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

Hux looks out at his dozen officers, not smiling, but not frowning.

Internally, he's withering and exploding from anxiety. Externally, he's the same vicious Hux that everyone knows.

He's already placed the call to delve as deep into Snoke's life as possible, and there's nothing more he can do on that front as long as he's still estranged from Kylo. That thought always takes his breath away — Kylo would know everything, and he's likely being interrogated by police without any support.

But there's nothing he can do about that. He needs to focus on the things he _can_ control. 

"With the Corvid out of the way," he begins, teeth clacking as he bites the words out, "at least for now, I would like to congratulate you all on the revenue increase we've seen this past quarter. Performance across the board is stellar." In truth, he's hardly been able to look at the numbers. Something inside him is still chipping away bit by bit, and he's deteriorating. 

His men smile and nod in deference.

"However," he stresses, lip curling, "given the incompetence of law enforcement against those wealthy few who can afford to persevere, I do not wish to de-escalate our productivity." Blood rushing in his ears drowns out his own voice, and he sounds to himself as though he's speaking from inside a glass jar. "The Corvid isn't likely to stay gone forever, if at all. There may be others in his syndicate, and they may be worse." His fists clench tight. "Further, players from farther corners _will_ try and fill the void. There is no shortage of competition, and there never will be. We must rule our territory with an iron fist if we do not wish to fall."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

The comfort that settles over his territory is stilted and awkward, too good to be true, a breath abated.

He leaves the research into Snoke entirely to others. It's too close to home for him, too nerve-wracking and panic-inducing to let himself think about it. Of all the times he so often refuses to let the small work remain below him, this is not one of them. Some things must remain beyond his reach, else he'll only turn the sharps on himself.

So he lets himself stay out of the loop, stay numb, stay safe. It must surely feel better than knowing every detail, but it still doesn't feel good.

As each day passes, it feels less and less true that the Corvid is gone. He directs the action, and they continue their missions, keep bringing in revenue, and focus on the future as well as they can, but Hux _knows_ before he knows.

_"The New York Police Department released Gerald Snoke from jail this morning, citing insufficient evidence to definitively link him to any of the crimes he's been accused of committing. They also state that he will not be extradited to the UK, France, Germany, Sweden, or Switzerland unless they can provide the evidence needed to charge him."_

Watching the news report, Hux sinks into the couch. Of course, it would go like this. It's only been two weeks. There's no doubt of Gerald Snoke's involvement, but unfortunately, convenient innocence is not an indication of a crime to the courts.

He can only hope that the crackdown will discourage them from future heists.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

October passes as quietly as Hux could hope for. He throws himself into his work, and as long as he's too tired to think, he can't think the wrong things.

But sometimes, it's too quiet.

There are no news stories about the Corvid. His normal phone never rings, he never shares a bed with anyone, and he always eats alone. It makes his pulse sound uncomfortably loud. It makes the thunder boom. It makes every click and pop and rustle seem so much closer and more dangerous, and if he cries occasionally, for one reason or another, it's okay because it's _benign_.

It's always benign. This year has been hell, steadily getting worse, and his stupid anxieties about constantly cleaning the flat and being sure to stay armed and never putting his hands in his pockets and always keeping his head on a swivel and desperately wanting to shout whenever he hears a whisper…

It's all benign. It'll go away on its own. The night terrors will stop. He won't ever need the night lights again after this brief rough patch.

But it's been thirteen years since he was brought home from the graveyard of empires, and the night terrors don't stop. They're always the same now, have been since that first night in Luke's gallery five years ago. They start with Kylo, and then things blow up.

_Kylo sighs, and the wanton sound of it is sharp on Hux's tongue like a charged battery._

_This is the tenth time he's flown to America to see the handsome and soulful man, and it may be time to admit he's in love. For a long time, he had thought himself immune to the very concept, but as he rocks forward, drawing a quiet mewl out of the wet mouth pressed against his neck, he fancies that he can feel the sounds of their lovemaking tingle all the way up his spine._

_"How did it happen?" Kylo whispers, hot breath hitting the wet scar._

_"I got shot."_

_"The scar's so small. You wouldn't be alive if you got shot in the neck."_

_Hux rocks in deep, pushing him deeper into the mattress and making him toss his head back with a groan. "That alive enough for you?"_

_Eyes closed, he nods. "Yes. Fuck." His arms tighten around him, pulling him closer, and his lips brush against the faint scar when he whispers. "It must have bled a lot, didn't it?"_

_"It did."_

_Kylo moans, laving his tongue over it._

_He keeps fucking deep into him as he remembers the scene, the sun-white sand and deep red blood and endless ringing and buzzing in his ears. "There was so much. When I was still awake, I could see it, and I didn't know that much blood could come from one person. I thought someone else had been shot, too."_

_Kylo curses and grabs Hux's hair, pulling hard to keep him as close as possible. He wraps his lips over the shiny skin and sucks, bruising it and teasing the blood up to the surface._

_Hux slows his pace, keeping the rhythm steady while he slides a hand up Kylo's thigh. He trails it lightly over the skin, occasionally giving the flesh a soft squeeze, and then wraps it around Kylo's leaking cock. "It was gushing at first, but by the time the medic got to me, I was only half-awake, and it was pouring out all over the place."_

_With a choked whine, Kylo digs his nails in. "God, I want to cut you open and see how much comes out."_

_He huffs, letting himself get lost in each thrust and drown in the rising sea of pleasure. "Do it. I've never felt more alive than when I was bleeding out."_

_Underneath him, Kylo gasps, tightening his hold on Hux's shoulders and shutting his eyes. "God, I'm gonna come."_

_"Good," Hux whispers. He ducks his head down to place a kiss on his cheek and squeezes harder as he tugs Kylo's cock in time with his thrusts. The legs around his middle kick at him, heels digging into his kidneys, and he moans as Kylo tightens around him. "Fuck, you're—"_

_The walls around them rattle and clatter to the dusty ground, and he wakes up._

He's hard, tenting his sweats and leaving a little wet patch — not that he wants to relieve himself in that way while he's huddled up on his sofa, gasping for air and shielding his neck.

He deserves this.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

Everything changes in November.

He had taken the day for himself to wind down and gain some perspective. He spent all day in nature, did nothing but think, and went home in peace.

And then he turned on the news.

_"Paris, London, and New York: these major hubs of culture are also major hubs of crime. They see robberies day in and day out, but nothing could prepare them for what some are calling 'the largest-scale heist of the century.' Pending investigation, it is not officially confirmed that all three events are linked, but looking at the particulars of these cases, I think the events speak for themselves._

_"First, Paris's_ Petit Palais _was burgled in the early morning just after a power outage. No one is known to have encountered the thief, and it is unknown whether footage of the perpetrator is available and usable. Museum officials have not disclosed what has been stolen, only that a major theft did occur._

_"Then, only an hour later, London's own Wallace Collection in Manchester Square was evacuated for fire safety, only for museum workers to return inside to find a few select items missing. They also have not specified the missing items._

_"Lastly, approximately four hours later, the Met Museum in New York reported a breach of security and loss of property. They never opened and have remained closed for the day in light of the slew of thefts._

_"The black feathers left behind at each location indicate something interesting. This may be the work of the Corvid, which would seem to be not just one person, but an international syndicate of gangsters and thieves."_

The news anchor keeps talking while Hux picks up his phone and places a call to Phasma. It rings once.

_"I've seen."_

"Okay," he says robotically. "Just making sure I'm not having a nightmare."

_"No, this is definitely real life, and real life is going to be much harder than you can dream."_

Closing his eyes, he sighs and hangs up. Life is already hard. He doesn't need something this sensational ruining everything.

On the dim-but-bright side, he now knows something he couldn't have been sure of before. It has to be a big team, at least nine of them, to pull this off. Hux now feels slightly less insulted.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"If you go back," Phasma drawls slowly, "way back, to basically the beginning, you'll find something interesting."

Hux reclines in his chair and crosses his arms, nearly crushing the smoldering cigarette between his fingers as he grinds his teeth. "The way you say 'way back' makes it sound like whatever dots you're connecting aren't really that closely related."

"You have a point," she concedes, "but so do I. There's no way they're getting into these buildings undetected every single time. You have seen for yourself that they've never set off an alarm, they've never been filmed walking into or out of a building, and only feathers are left behind."

He glares. "It's not a troupe of birds."

"Never said it was," she smirks, brows arching wickedly. "But, what if there were a shape-shifting bird involved? Would you ever consider that?"

"No," he huffs.

Baring her teeth, she leans forward. "Even if the person telling you is a—"

"I told you already that your degree is useless in this search." He forces the cigarette between his tight lips, mumbling. "Did you get those files I sent you? I want to hear about Snoke's connections — who and why — not your ramblings about fucking magic."

Although definitely slighted by his dismissal, she grins through it and hums. "I got the files on Snoke. I read them. I've been thinking, and I've formed an expert opinion. But even with all the magical artifacts they're gathering, you refuse to believe that magic might have something to do with Snoke's connections and motivations."

Rolling the cigarette back and forth over his teeth, he nods. "That's correct. I don't believe in magic."

She rolls her eyes. "It's not about _us_ believing in magic — just _them_." Standing up from her chair, she begins to pace. "Think about it. The power cuts?"

"Power cuts?"

"From all the times you came up empty handed," she elaborates. "You don't always play with the power when you make your grabs, but there must have been electrical tampering every single time the Corvid's people swept in first, otherwise you'd automatically have been met with police."

He hesitates, but she isn't wrong with that part. Feeling slightly nauseated, he lets the cigarette fall to the concrete. "Most likely, yes."

"And that man who attacked you — he used a taser, didn't he?"

Hux nods. "I think so."

"Electricity," she stresses. "Birds. Magic."

He tries making sense of it but can't come up with anything. "I don't know what that all means."

She smiles, and her sharp teeth glow. "Two words: South Africa."

He hums, furrowing his brow. "Magical electricity birds. Is that a South African thing?"

She rolls her eyes again. "You don't want anything to do with magic or my _useless_ degree, so I'm afraid I'll have to stick to dealing art, and all this groundbreaking information will go with me when our contract ends."

"No," he warns, pointing at her. "I want to know." He pauses. "I need to know."

Taking her seat once more, she smirks at him. "The _impundulu_ is a bird that can conjure and travel on lightning at will. It's fierce, cool, and independent, and it comes from the same culture as a few of the things that were stolen." She gives a head tilt. "Granted, many things were stolen, and the vast majority of them seem to be unrelated to the peoples of that region, but the artifacts are all still magical, and we're still thinking about lightning birds, which tells me that Snoke could be working with or dealing to South Africans."

"Does Snoke—"

"If you had bothered to read the report you sent me," she interrupts, "then you would know that yes, Snoke has spent a couple decades in South Africa."

In an odd way, it makes sense. People tend to stick to what they already know because it's easy and safe. Even if there's no real advantage to be held, finding comfort in one's culture is not unreasonable. He nods. "Of course."

"He also has a personal assistant who has been looked into," she continues, and his heart clenches, ice cold. "He's not considered to be a player for various reasons, but his family does have an interesting background, one that might get him involved in such activities. His name is—"

"Kylo Ren," Hux whispers before he realizes he should have kept his mouth shut.

Phasma raises a brow. "Oh, did you read the report?"

He shakes his head. "No, I just glanced at it. I saw that bit but nothing else. Do go on." He bites down hard on his lip to shut himself up.

"Right. So his name currently is Kylo Ren, but it used to be different. No reason known for the name change, but it was definitely done as an adult. Family professional history includes art, gemstones, and smuggling — all separate but suspect nonetheless."

Hux nods along to it all, ears ringing. He's known a great deal about him for a long time, but he's never pressed about his family any further than who his parents are. The smuggling is no surprise as his father's felonies are public record, but the gemstones… That's curious.

"This Kylo is too poor and boring to be taken seriously. He never leaves New York, only has someone, maybe a girlfriend, visit from the UK frequently. That's it. _But_ here's the kicker: after some ridiculously easy fraud, it was found that his grandfather was adopted out of South Africa." She grins. "Coincidence?"

After a second, he shakes his head. "Are you sure he's not connected to Snoke only because of South Africa? It doesn't have to mean that this Kylo person is involved in the crime."

"No, that's my point," she says, pointing a finger out at him. "It's another connection Snoke has to the region. He's not from there, but he practically surrounds himself with it."

He holds back a sigh, uneager to seem relieved that Kylo won't be further connected. He hadn't known about his grandfather before, but it hardly matters. 

"Oh, whoa," Phasma gasps, staring at him.

He frowns deeply. "What?"

"What if they're trying to _summon_ an _impundulu_? Or control one? That's why they have that Xhosa veil — it's hypnotic and can entrance these creatures. And that's why I haven't heard any of their takings go up for sale. If they're simply keeping everything, using it or whatever they're doing, then it's…you know."

"Weird," he fills in.

"Interesting," she corrects quickly. "If I recall correctly, they're drawn to thieves and the things they steal, and they live off the blood of people."

 _Vampires to bad men_ , he thinks. _Charming_.

"It would explain the near-constant pillaging of Western museums. So much of this stuff was stolen as part of its journey here." She chews a lip, thinking. "You know any South Africans that want to subvert our institutions?"

He grits his teeth. "We'll see."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"You think it's magic?"

"No," Hux stresses, "I think it's people who _believe_ in magic."

"And you just want us to find any resentful South Africans and report back?"

"Exactly."

Opan hums. "Why South Africans?"

"Because that's where this legend comes from, as far as I know," he explains. "They are the ones who would act on the legend in this way. Now, _don't_ hurt them and _don't_ tip them off. We don't want the Corvid's people to have an advantage. Just bring the info you gather back to me. That's it."

"Yes, sir."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

All month long, week after week, the only reports Hux gets back are:

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Something.

One simple run-in turns into an interview. Only one. It's just as infuriating and disappointing as one might imagine.

Hux keeps all his curses to himself when he approaches the car, opens a rear door, and climbs in. Protocol was clearly _not_ to talk to any suspects. He'll have to have a talk with someone. The car starts moving immediately. 

The other person in the back with him is a dark woman, one he is told is named Rae Sloane. She looks at him only briefly before turning her eyes forward.

"What is your name?"

"Sloane," she says.

"Occupation?"

"None of your business."

"How did you end up in my car?"

She scoffs. "How did you find yourself to be looking for a mythological creature?"

He doesn't answer that question, preferring instead to wait in silence until she starts tapping her foot anxiously.

"Have you seen one?" she asks eventually. "A lightning bird?"

"I've seen a human."

"They can turn into humans."

He rolls his eye. "They aren't even real."

"They can turn into humans," she repeats.

"Look, woman," he snaps. "I'm looking for criminals. _Human_ criminals. You know any criminals who worship this bird thing? Because I ran into one, and instead doing anything normal, like stabbing me or shooting me, he tased me. What kind of—"

She laughs easily, cutting him off. "Did you see a taser?"

He glares at her. "No, I didn't because it was dark, and he came up from behind."

"If you didn't see a taser, then I don't believe you can confidently say these creatures don't exist. For all you know—"

He snarls. "Shut up and get out of my car."

All through the month, the Corvid keeps working, and Hux has no idea how. His own work is slow, too complicated, too risky, and he's not making the money he'd hoped he would. It's like ever since he was forced to leave Kylo, he's lost his stuff.

It's humiliating, being up at this level and still managing to fail, so he makes a plan.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"From December seventh through December twenty-ninth, select pieces from the Naberrie Gem Collection will be on loan to the Victoria and Albert Museum. I want all of them, but most especially the _Ben_. It's a bird cut from Tanzanite, and it's heavy — the kind of paperweight you could kill with, easily worth a million alone."

All three of the men around the table nod silently.

Hux sits up straighter. "Tough thing is, I need them by the eighteenth. That gives us only ten days from arrival to prepare, two weeks total. Some will definitely be kept in a vault while the others are on display, so we need to be prepared for that. Extra security guards, extra security cameras, extra lighting. It will be an uncomfortable one, but we must get it done. If anything goes wrong, there will be a funeral. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Ready?"

"Ready."

Hux sits and waits. He waits for a long time. He waits for what feels like forever, watching and counting and jotting it all down in his notes.

It takes a full week to get a decent picture of what an entry would look like. It takes a lot of sleuthing and honest questions to get together a practical map of their penetration and grab. It takes a lot of hope on Hux's part to imagine getting the money to give to Kylo — but that's on the other side of the bridge. For now, they must continue burrowing their way a little bit deeper into the soft shell of the fortified museum.

Late on the night of December sixteenth, two days before the scheduled grab, Hux and Thanisson take their tools to the museum to be hidden in a convenient spot. The housing across the alley serves their purpose well.

"This roof is it," Hux whispers, opening the black tool bag on his shoulder and pulling out a similar one. He hoists the mostly empty bag on his shoulders as he sets the one with the tools down. "We can get in on this side and then find our way to the second floor. With any luck, we'll have a stronger set of tools on the inside for the vault, but Opan and Mitaka have to count the guards before we can access it."

"Sounds good," Thanisson mumbles, glancing across the service road at the old building. "And you think we can get up easily?"

"Of course. Do you have doubts?"

He shakes his head. "Only concerns."

Hux hums in disapproval. "Shame, you—"

His words falter as a magpie, a _big_ one, swoops overhead. Normally, he might not be able to make out the white patches late at night, but the size of it is ridiculous, and every splotch of white is a bright blazon.

"What are you looking at?"

For a moment, Hux isn't sure. "Unless all the magpies are being fed growth hormone now, I think that's the fucker that took my eye." He gestures to the creature, following it as it hooks a circle. "See how big it is?"

"Huh." Thanisson shakes his head as it lands on the museum's roof. "That is huge. Are you sure it's a magpie?"

The building goes dark, and the magpie disappears.

Hux stares, unable to breathe as the gears turn. "Get down," he mumbles, half to himself and half to Thanisson. "Off the roof. Now. I've got the bag. We're going now."

"Now?"

"Now," Hux repeats. "Inside."

Thanisson keeps his head down as he climbs down the side of the house, but Hux can hear the shock in his voice. "Right now? Early? Without the team?"

When they reach the street, a quiet alley, Hux crowds Thanisson up against the wall of the house and gets in his face. "We have no better chance than this," he murmurs, touching their foreheads together and letting his lips brush against the other man's to keep their faces hidden. "Security will be distracted by the power outage, and this institution has money, so I have no doubt they'll beef up security starting tomorrow. It'll be riskier to wait than it is to simply go in now on the Corvid's heels."

Thanisson's eyes widen dramatically, and he makes to look around Hux. "The Cor—"

Hux grabs his jaw and pulls him back. "You're a professional. Don't stick your face out there like that. Just keep your head down, mask up, and get inside."

"Shit," he huffs. "How are we going to do this if the Corvid has people inside the building?"

"Fast." In their proximity, Hux can almost feel Thanisson's heart beating out of his chest. His hands are shaking. "It's like the early days, back when I first got started; every hit was fast and direct, and I never got caught. Breathe," he commands, and as soon as the other man has his lungs full of air, Hux grabs him and pushes him into the street. "Don't disappoint me."

Thanisson pulls the nylon over his face and strolls steadily across the street, chin down against his chest, and Hux follows a short while later, meeting him under the window the bird had landed above.

"This is fucking stupid," Hux murmurs, but when the glass window is no longer in his way, he shucks the thought and climbs inside. No time but the present.

He feels too light on his feet as they dart past statue after statue. The only weapon he has is a knife, but he can't regret the decision to act now when each step takes them further into darkness, giving him more and more advantage.

When he sees the security gate on the bookstore, the only thing that keeps him from laughing is the knowledge that they have competition in the building. But with six floors and even a little luck, he trusts they won't run into the Corvid's people too soon.

Out of the statue gallery and reaching the first set of stairs, he takes them two at a time, passing the first floor and going directly to the second.

"Drill," he hisses at Thanisson, and he hands it over. Hux presses it into the lock on the door and begins boring through it. It's loud in the silent museum — surely no louder than it typically is, but with the knowledge that there's more than just underpaid security guards present, he's more on edge than usual.

Soon, the lock gives into the drill, and he knocks the plates out of the way and slides the bolt to get the door open. There, immediately to the left and wide fucking open, are the jewels.

He leads Thanisson into the gallery, making a beeline for the case in the middle chamber he knows to hold the borrowed collection. Behind him, he hears a crash.

Hux skids to a stop and looks back, freezing when he sees a black shadow kneeling over Thanisson's limp form. In the dark, blood looks black.

The stranger brings a hand up to their face, licking it slowly. Hux's heart pounds. What kind of sickos are these people?

In the last chamber, now behind him, he hears a fluttery clapping — like wings. He glances back.

Nothing.

When he looks back to Thanisson, the shadow rises. It's as tall as he is, carries a hefty build, and walks in long strides toward him, each step silent.

"Stop," Hux rasps, knife in hand. His throat is too tight, and the word barely scrapes out. "Stop!"

The man doesn't stop.

Hux points to his left. "That set. That's all I want. No more."

The man raises a hand toward him, and in a blinding shock, Hux hits the floor. He hadn't seen the taser. He lets himself relax for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply. He still has the knife in his hand.

"Who are you?" he breathes.

The man doesn't respond.

"Why are you doing this? Taking so much?"

Still no response.

Hux looks up at him and tightens his grip on the knife. "What did you do to my partner?"

"I consumed him," he croaks, extending a gloved hand down toward Hux's face. Except it's not a leather glove, as it had appeared to be. Instead, as the black hand draws nearer, he can make out scales, feathers, talons.

"What are you?"

The hand wraps around his neck, pushing on his throat, and Hux takes his opportunity to slash at the face of the man — _creature_ — strangling him. The knife cuts through his skin with sickening ease, and it shrieks and pulls away, stumbling onto its back and clawing at the bleeding gash on its face and neck.

Hux jumps on it, pinning its shoulders to the floor only to get a jolt up the arms in return. His heart lurches dangerously, and he pulls his elbow back to channel all his strength into striking the man-shaped thing's face.

Whatever or whoever this is, they clearly aren't used to a fight. There's no struggle, no pushback. Hux looks up and around to make sure it's not a trap. There's no one about, not even a guard.

Underneath him, the creature groans, holding its face in both hands.

"An eye for an eye," he hisses, grabbing each wrist and pulling them away. One of them is real, human or human-like, but the other is…wrong. He drops them to the side, and the creature doesn't try to replace them.

The mask is ruined. Where the knife compromised it, the blood took over, so the face is still distorted, now half-covered in what looks like black ink. Heart pounding in chest, blood rushing in his ears, Hux grabs the bloody flaps of the ripped-up mask and pulls, tearing it up and removing it. What he sees turns his stomach to lead.

He looks like Kylo.

Whatever this _thing_ that's been following him and taking his targets and hurting his business has now taken much worse. He's too punched to be sick.

"How dare you," he spits down at the face of his lover. "How dare you look like him." When it blinks up at him with one of Kylo's eyes, he lays his arm down into its throat, baring his teeth as the eye widens in shock. "You fucking monster. If there are any more of you, I promise I'll kill them all."

The creature under him looks over to its right, eye pushing hard at the inner corner, and Hux follows its gaze to the Naberrie gems — the ones he came here for. When he looks back down, its head is turning unsteadily in the other direction. Before he can think, he lifts his arm off the throat.

 _It's a trick_ , he thinks. The thing is just playing, tricking him into thinking it's just like Kylo. The whole thing is a ruse; that's its spiel.

But something makes him crawl away. Both ideas — that the bird is pretending to be Kylo in such a convincing way, and that Kylo _is_ the bird — disgust him. It's too close to home. He can't help that it gets under his skin.

He starts thinking about a way out. The thing seems…incapacitated? But that line of thought circles him right back to the question of who or what this thing that looks like Kylo is. As he watches it seize, visible arcs of electricity spring up from its skin, covering it sporadically from head to toe.

He's enchanted. He can't make himself move while this light show is happening before his very eyes. He can't question it, either.

And then it stops. The electricity stops, the movement stops, and the body lies still on the floor.

It looks almost harmless.

It looks like Kylo.

Only now can Hux start to consider why this thing looks like Kylo, why its right arm looks strange, why it seized, why it's here with him of all people.

Slowly, he takes his own mask off and crawls over to the limp body. Seeing it more clearly, it looks exactly like Kylo, not a mole out of place. He bends down over its bloody neck; it smells like Kylo. He reaches a hand up to its face to see if it runs hot like Kylo, and — 

Hux's stomach empties itself all over the grass.

Grass.

He looks up and sees stars. He looks over and sees Kylo. He takes a deep breath, almost choking on the moisture and nitrogen and cold air.

They're on the roadside out in the country. Where the museum went, he doesn't know.

No phone, no car, no water. They're screwed. Hux sighs and looks over at Kylo again, reaching out to feel —

He's sick again, this time against a brick wall in some dark alley.

He looks at Kylo's body. "Are you going to keep doing this?" he whispers, not daring to touch him again for fear of suddenly finding himself in another random location.

At the light end of the alley, he can hear cars. He tosses another glance at Kylo's unconscious form. "I'll be right back. Please don't move again."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"What is this?"

"Just help him, please."

"I-I can't. This is too much. I don't do these sorts of surgeries. And, and, and the a-arm? What the Hell, Hux?"

"Rey, please. Just fix it."

Rey shuts down and puts her head in her hands. "There's a woman in Vauxhall. She does…all sorts of things. Strange things. Her name is Sloane, and if she can't help you…"

The name gives him pause, but he shrugs it off. "Direct me to her now."

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

"You aren't used to not knowing."

Hux holds his mug of tea in his hands, keeping them warm while his blood chills his body.

"Knowledge always leaves a scar, and I can see plenty of yours."

The chair he's in is stiff and small, but he doesn't dare move.

"This experience _will_ scar you irreparably."

Hux looks up at Miss Sloane and swallows. "What the fuck is going on?"

She shrugs, no more polite or impolite than that time they sat in his car. "Little more than what has been going on forever."

"What does that mean?"

Miss Sloane sighs and takes a seat at the table. "It means that there are some new truths that you must get used to. First and foremost, that this man is a more complex, mighty, and fragile creature than you know."

That word seems to be the only one — creature.

"Just as your situation is more complex, mighty, and fragile than he ever knew."

Hux frowns and pulls his tea closer to his face, though he still does not drink it. They both are years behind on the truth. One thing has him hung up more than anything else at the moment. "His arm," he whispers. "When you took that bandaging off, it was…"

She shakes her head vehemently. "Do not ask me questions meant for him. I don't even know him. I am only healing him, as I swore to do."

But he has so many questions.

Hux watches the dawn break from a dirty kitchen window in a tiny flat in Vauxhall.

He watches the news report of a museum break-in and a found body — Thanisson.

That evening, he watches dusk recede from the kitchen window.

That night, he watches Kylo stir from his sleep and set his one eye on Hux. Neither of them say anything for a long time. Hux studies his body, the scales over his hands, the thick feathering that covers his arm, the odd merge with human skin.

Kylo shifts his focus between Hux and himself. He takes in Hux's bloodied clothes and stern face, then feels the gauze on his face with his black bird hand, then looks back at Hux.

"I owe you a lot of apologies." Hux sets his mouth in a line, refusing to glower at the…man. He wrings his hands when he talks. "I have hurt you physically. I have hurt you emotionally. I have kept a major secret from you since the day I met you. I have no business asking you this question, I know." He sighs. "What is going on with you?"

Kylo rolls onto his side, turning his back to Hux.

"Kylo," he sighs, exasperated. "You have feathers growing out of your arm, and you can shoot electricity from your hand, and you can fucking teleport. Not to mention, you broke into a museum, and I'm pretty sure you _killed_ someone."

"It's a long story."

"Do go on."

Kylo is quiet for a while, but he does offer somewhat of an explanation after a minute. "It's, um, genetic. The men on my mom's side of the family are all like this. It doesn't really start until adulthood, though, and it doesn't have to be bad. It's just when you, um, use it more? Then you start to look like I do."

Hux closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the words process. It's _genetic_. It's _used_. It _changes you_. _Bad_. "Can you tell me exactly what you're doing that makes you look like…that?"

"Shifting. Flying."

Hux blinks his eyes open. "Flying?"

"I think that's what you meant when you said I can teleport," he mumbles. "It's not instantaneous. It's lightning. That's how I get around."

Leaning back against the wall, Hux bites his lip. Phasma had said it. Sloane, the woman who lives here and took care of Kylo, had said it. Hux had shrugged it off. "So you do that a lot," he gathers, thinking of all the places the Corvid had visited, "and it makes your arm grow feathers?"

"Yes."

"So the burn—"

"Was a lie," Kylo hisses. 

"And the seizures?"

"Do not actually meet the medical definition of epilepsy. It's caused by holding back my powers. Electricity, you know. Sometimes I can't control it." He scoffs. "I'm sorry if you think I should have told you I'm part bird, mister perfectly human."

"Don't," Hux commands. "Do not get bitter. I—," he chokes, feeling something wet on his face. "I'm not mad, Kylo. I'm scared. I don't blame you for lying because, yes, it's fucking weird. Everything about you scared me already, and now I'm learning about even more."

Kylo rolls back over, looking at him again with disturbance in his eye. "I was _never_ scared of you before. You were a good man. You fought for what you believed in, and you were always good to me. But then I broke into a museum, and apparently _you_ were there? It's one thing to be born like me, and it's another thing entirely to be a thief."

He lowers his brow to cover the pain. "Don't accuse me of being so bad if you were doing the same thing, Kylo. I won't judge you for it, and I won't judge you for keeping it a secret, but you can't judge me for it, either."

"That was Snoke's work, not mine."

Hux pauses, brain working overtime. "I don't follow."

With a sigh, Kylo turns away again. "He did something — years ago — that made me…follow orders. That's the only reason I've been taking things for him."

"What? He blackmailed you?"

"No," Kylo huffs. "He enchanted us."

"Oh." He frowns. "Us?"

Kylo is still for a while. "I'm not exactly one of a kind."

"Of course not," Hux breathes, "but Snoke has more like you under his control?"

He nods. "I've never met them, but as his PA…" He shrugs. "He's got at least six others in his thrall."

Hux grits his teeth. _So Snoke may very well continue his thefts_ , he thinks. _Or he could retaliate against Kylo, call him back._ "Are you still, um…?"

He shakes his head. "The healer ended his control. Don't ask me how I know. It's like the seizures; it won't make any sense to you."

"All right." Crossing his arms, he turns away. There are a lot more things he wants to say, things he wants to ask, but he opts to let Kylo rest instead and leaves the room quietly.

⌁ ⸸ ⌁

December in New York is worse than February in New York. It's just as cold as one would expect, but it's also much darker.

The water gets hot enough to shower with but not hot enough to completely break through the chill. Kylo is colder than ever.

"I hope forty million is enough," Hux whispers. "I'm sorry I couldn't get more. I tried, but, you know. We sort of stepped on each other's toes, didn't we? Tripped ourselves up."

Behind him, Kylo squawks. "Forty million? Like, forty million what? Dollars?"

"That's the value of the account, yes. But it's diversified, of course. And then there's the collection in Alaska. And the one in Norway. And the one out in—"

"Hux?"

"Yes?"

"When you mentioned that raise at work," Kylo mumbles, barely audible under the rush of the running water, "was that, um…?"

"Pure bullshit," Hux confirms. "All that time spent away from you was for you, I'm afraid. I couldn't just tell you that I was, you know."

They've talked a lot, and they have a lot more to talk about, Hux knows. It's a lucky thing Kylo invited him back to New York in the first place so that they _could_ talk the situation over. Hopefully, the forty million dollars is a good start for reparation.

"I've quit. And I've frozen all my connections. And I've severed all my funds. I know it won't fix what I did to your face, but—"

"An eye for an eye," Kylo gruffs. "Now we're matching. It's cute, isn't it? Like a couples thing? You have the right eye, I have the left eye, and we'll only need one pair of glasses between us."

Hux huffs a short laugh. A hand lands on his shoulder, and he sinks into the unfamiliar texture. "I love you, you know," he murmurs. "If I'm honest, you still scare me, but I love you. I always have. Nothing can change that. It's okay if you don't love me anymore. You can keep all the money, go to California and stay safe away from Snoke, and I can live off the little things I have, but—"

"You've done nothing but take care of me, babe."

Hux lifts his head up, looks back over the shoulder where Kylo's hand rests. "I hurt you."

His smile is bittersweet, but it still makes both eyes crinkle at the corners. "It only hurt me because I loved you."

That only makes Hux feel worse, but Kylo shakes his head in dismissal.

"It was nothing, honestly. I hated when you worried about me because I didn't want you to find out the truth. But forget the lies. Forget the misunderstandings. We're even, I think." He steps closer, closing all the distance between them until he's flush against Hux's back. He wraps his arms around his middle and hooks his chin over his shoulder. "You don't have to worry about me, and I won't let you worry about yourself because I'll be around all the time. I've always loved you, you know that."

Hux swallows, caressing his arms. He's only said it in past tense, so the question still burns in his throat, itching to get out. "Do you love me now?"

"I love you," Kylo whispers. "Plus, you have forty million dollars."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Writing this fic was loads of fun, and [ArsTyrannus](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus)'s art has been such an inspiration. Thank you so much for your comments; I can't wait to read them!
> 
> Art and prompt by [ArsTyrannus](https://mobile.twitter.com/arstyrannus) and fic by [NymeriaKing](https://mobile.twitter.com/nymeriaking) on Twitter.


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